Guess Who's Coming to Dinner
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU John Munch takes Sarah Zelman home to meet his family for Thanksgiving, the year following "November Rain." As they begin to prepare to leave Pikesville, Munch admits he isn't sorry for having manipulated Zelman's career.
1. Chapter 1

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner"

"**Guess Who's Coming to Dinner"**

by Cardinal Robbins

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Disclaimer: John Munch isn't mine, neither are Bernard Munch, Meldrick Lewis or Terri Stivers. Ben Munch and his mom, Marianne, as well as Uncle Jacob are used with the kind permission of LSMunch. Rhoda and Brenda Morgenstern belong to MTM Productions. CIA Agent Andy Munch and Ruth Munch were created by Animaltalker, and appear here in keeping with established fanon. I hope I've credited everyone.

Sarah Zelman is mine…all mine, thanks to a doc I've registered with WGAw. Unless, of course, Wolf gets out his checkbook and cuts me a deal. For anyone who's curious, this takes place the year after "November Rain."

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"Yes, you did hear me correctly," John Munch said patiently. "I'm asking you to come to Pikesville with me, for Thanksgiving." He dropped a tea bag into his mug of hot water and studied her face carefully. "You know you want to," he prodded, waiting.

She drew in a deep breath, wondering how best to break it to him. "I can't, John. I'm working the day shift with Fin." Zelman knew – if they could find an open eatery close to the precinct – she could look forward to lukewarm turkey on whole wheat, bleeding cranberry sauce in a white Styrofoam container. Happy Thanksgiving, indeed.

"You were working the holiday," Munch corrected her, his tone guardedly hopeful. "Sarah, I talked with Cap and you could take Thanksgiving weekend off…if you wanted to. I ran it by Fin and he's fine with your taking a few days."

"Why did you ask them, before you asked me?" She gave him a look that matched her tone of voice.

"Because you wouldn't have asked," John replied. "I can see by the look on your face, you're already waffling." He looked at her over his lenses, wondering how much coaxing it would take to get her to go with him.

"It's just that I don't know, John," she said. "Maybe I'd better talk with Fin and make sure."

He knew she wasn't about to bail on a partner, especially over a holiday weekend. "Don's working; Fin won't be alone. Elliot and Olivia will be back on Saturday, which means there's coverage over the long weekend." He could tell she was thinking it over carefully, considering her answer. "When's the last time we had a holiday weekend off?" he asked softly, a quick glance over his shoulder confirming Cragen was still in his office.

"It's been a long time, John," she admitted. "Too long, if you ask me. All these high profile cases we've been solving lately, it's exhausting. I can't recall the last time either of us slept more than five hours a night over the past month." She wrinkled her brow for a moment, chewing her lower lip almost imperceptively. "It's incredibly tempting to get out of here for a few days."

He seized on her near-decision, determined to sway her. "Pikesville is friendly, peaceful, and I can guarantee you'll get at least seven hours of sleep every night," he insisted. "How about it? Come meet the tribe." He wanted her to go with him, to meet his family, especially his mom. It was time.

"Wouldn't that be throwing your mother a last-minute curve?" she asked. "It wouldn't be fair." The last thing she wanted was to toss a wrench into the works of a family gathering, at a time when first impressions meant everything to her.

"It won't bother my mom in the slightest," he asserted. "Not nearly as much as my exes did." He smiled, thinking of his most recent conversation with his mother. "Sarah, she'll be overjoyed. I'm finally bringing home 'a nice Jewish girl.' Mom will be absolutely elated." He looked at her so earnestly there was no way she could resist.

"After your history, the shock will kill her, God forbid." Zelman wished her lenses would darken, to keep Munch from seeing her weaken.

"God forbid," he added quickly. He gestured widely, tea mug still in hand. "It would make her so happy." She couldn't hold him off for much longer, he knew. He was determined to wear her down on this one. "Sarah – "

"Are you sure?" she asked, almost having decided.

"Have I ever lied to you?" he shot back. "Okay, don't answer that." He sat down on the corner of her desk and tipped his head. "C'mon… It's less than a four-hour drive, you won't have to roast a turkey and my family will love you as much as I do." Got her, he thought. She couldn't possibly turn down a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. A warm home. Family.

And he was right.

"You didn't have to mention food," she teased. "You had me at seven hours of sleep," she admitted, smiling. "I shouldn't walk in empty-handed, though. What can I bring?" She knew better than to try and bake something, in case she accidentally toted along something someone else also brought. Just her luck, if she made noodle kugel, it would be one of five versions there.

John thought for a moment and brightened. "We'll take a few bottles of wine. My mom is hopeless when it comes to grapes and vintages; she rarely has anything other than Mogen David or Kedem," he explained. He already had in mind three whites and an assortment of reds, most of which he'd seen at a little wine shop not far from his place.

"Sounds good," Sarah agreed. "Will I need a glass or two, before I meet everyone?" She was already starting to second-guess her decision, but realized how much it meant to Munch. When she saw the look on his face, she was determined to get over her anxiety and have a good time.

"You'll probably want a couple shots of hard liquor and a handful of tranquilizers for that," he said with a wry grin. "I'm kidding. It will all be fine, you'll see." He slipped off her desk, the smile still on his face. "We'll trade in a few days of comp-time, to make a good vacation out of it."

"It's sounding better and better already," she replied, nodding her head. "Okay. You'll arrange it?"

"Cap will sign off on the paperwork before we're done for the day." He'd done it. He had convinced her. As he walked into Don Cragen's office, there was an ever so slight spring in his step.

0O0O0

John saw Sarah's black pilot's bag next to the door, a fold-over wardrobe bag leaned against it. "You pack light. Are you sure you have everything?" he asked, sure there had to be more of her luggage. He'd remembered a carry-all for the bottles of wine they were taking, the liquids safely cushioned and waiting to be placed in the car.

Zelman mentally ran down her packing list one last time, sure she had everything. "If there was one thing I learned while moving around the country, then doing dirty work for the Bureau, it's how to be a minimalist," she assured him. "Believe it or not, two bags have everything needed for a few nights in Pikesville. How about you?"

"I have a couple of extra suits in my fold-over, everything else is in my pilot's bag," he replied. "I think we're set." He propped his bags next to hers, then went into the kitchen to gather a few snacks for the trip.

"I like the way you pack," she decided, amused.

He paused, his hand in a bag of Reese's peanut butter cups. "Do I suddenly smell the acrid stench of sarcasm?" Dropping a couple handfuls of candies into the bag, he opened another cabinet to look for the snack bags of potato chips he'd bought the week before.

"Not in the slightest. I'm serious." She inwardly cringed, knowing he was loading up on junk again; empty calories he secreted in her cabinets, because she didn't want to be tempted. It was a trip to Pikesville, not a journey to the Kalahari, but she couldn't be irked with him for long. "I've known more than a few men who couldn't pack a lunchbox, let alone a suitcase."

"Would one of those men happen to be your ex-boyfriend?" he asked, getting a dig in. "As many little sorties as he goes on these days for the Feds, one would think he'd manage to keep it concise." He folded closed the brown paper lunch bag, satisfied he'd managed to pack the snack food trifecta – candy, chips and cookies. Sarah had baked him a batch of double chocolate chip, on the condition he didn't rip through a dozen in a day.

She gave him a look, secretly envious of his ultra-quick metabolism which kept him noticeably thin yet deceptively strong. "Sure, these days. You should have seen the five bulging suitcases, two of them full-sized, when he packed for a three-night stay in Vegas." Sarah laughed, remembering how amazed she was at Stranahan's vanity. "How many clothes can one person wear in a day?" she mused.

John shook his head, able to picture it. "You're saying 'Marshal Dan' packed like a girl?" he asked, smirking.

She looked toward the ceiling, thinking how exasperated some of her ex's habits made her. "Girls never brought half as many clothes. I thought he was going to rush off and change every ten minutes. I guess if you can't decide what to wear, you might as well take the entire closet with you, huh?"

"Why couldn't he have found Billie Lou all those years ago, leaving me to find you earlier in life?" John had often contemplated that very question, usually late at night when he was sleeping by Sarah's side.

She had a soft smile on her face as she looked at him. "We'll never know, John. Maybe we weren't ready for each other yet." For a Jew, Zelman had an amazing penchant for believing in karma, which sometimes baffled John.

He put the lunch bag on the table, before taking her into an embrace. "At least we have each other now. Mom doesn't know it, but she's about to love you," he said, punctuating his assertion with a kiss.

She returned his kiss, hoping fervently he'd prove right. "We can only hope. Think you could maybe try a little harder to make me nervous?" she asked, half-joking.

"I'm sorry, babe. C'mon, don't feel jittery about this… Personally, I'm excited, because it's time to show you off to family," he said, still holding her tightly. He kissed her again, wanting only to allay her trepidation and help her enjoy the experience of being with his family. "Sarah? Tell me what you're thinking," he urged her, feeling the tension as they held each other.

She shrugged, not sure how to explain her feelings. "Your ex-wives…they were show ponies, sweetheart, not me," she replied. "I'm my own person, John; I'm not walking in there as the future Mrs. Munch. We've talked about this, remember?" Sarah hoped she hadn't been too blunt, but she was seeing his family on her terms as much as his. She wasn't about to be the pretty ornament standing by his side as a trophy.

He reluctantly dropped his arms to his sides, wondering if he had inadvertently objectified her for the sake of impressing Bernie and the others. "Did I imply you were meeting everyone as 'Number Five,' as you sometimes put it?" He led her to the living room, where they both settled down on the couch.

"Frankly? You did, when we were discussing this last night," she said gently. The last thing she wanted was to hurt his feelings, but she knew they had to settle the issue before they started for Pikesville.

After a glass of Chablis over the previous night's dinner, he'd extolled her virtues over those of his ex-wives. While she was thrilled he was so happy they were together, she inwardly cringed. As he'd talked, she felt like the brass ring on the carousel – a prize he wanted to brandish in front of them all, rather than inviting them to relate to her as a person who loved him more than his ex-wives ever had.

He sighed, finally understanding how he'd acted and how it made her feel. "You're right, I guess I did. I didn't mean to, Sarah. I'm sorry." John took her hand in his, looking into her eyes. "You're not a 'show pony.' I didn't mean for it to come off that way."

"I know, sweetheart… You're excited, which is good. Because I am, too," she assured him. "I genuinely want to meet your people and get to know them all, especially your mom." She leaned over, kissing him on the cheek before he pulled her into a deeper embrace. "Once they understand how much we love each other, everything else will fall into place."

"You're right. It will." He shook his head, a thoughtful expression on his features. "It does beg the question, however: What should I say when Bernie backs me into a corner or Mom starts asking a few thousand questions?" he wondered aloud. "How should I refer to you? Co-worker, squad mate, associate, fellow detective, close friend, significant other, main squeeze, lover, honey bunch – " He was determined to coax a smile from her, especially since he'd accidentally stepped on her feelings."

"Hey! 'Honey bunch' my ass, especially in front of your mom. 'Girlfriend' will do nicely, thanks," she said, laughing. "'Lady friend' is also fine, if you think the former is too high school."

Once he had her smiling, he felt a thousand times better. "Will you let me use a modifier like 'hot' or 'brilliant'? Or how about, my brilliantly hot girlfriend?" he asked, pushing his luck.

"Now I'm choking on the sarcasm, you goof," she joked. "Let's see… 'Devoted' is the word which comes to mind, boyfriend." She glanced at the VCR clock across the room and realized it was time they headed out. She stood, playfully trying to pull him up from the sofa.

"That's 'Mister Incredibly Good-looking Boyfriend' to you," he replied, as he stood.

"Well, Mister Incredibly Good-looking, we could continue this in the car, you know." She cast a longing look down the hall, almost reluctant to leave with the bedroom so close. If they relented now, they'd be caught in so much traffic even Munch would feel claustrophobic on the expressways. "All packed for Pikesville?" she asked, turning her thoughts to the trip.

"Ready as I'll ever be," he replied brightly. "I'll load luggage while you turn on the stereo and a couple lights." He draped her wardrobe over his arm, picked up his pilot's bag with the other and looked at her wistfully. "We're really doing this. I'm not going back home alone for a change."

"No, you're not," she said, her hand on his arm. "John? Are you all right?"

"Yes. Yes, I am… I just realized, I never want to go back home alone ever again." Burdened as he was by the luggage, he managed to lean forward and kiss her once more. "Best of all, I'll never have to." She opened the door and he walked toward the elevator, happier than he'd been in years.

0O0O0

He pulled her gold Saturn sedan on to NY-495 West to pick up I-95 South, looking forward to the drive. Before long, he noticed she had become very quiet, not even fiddling with the radio as was her habit. "Having second thoughts again?" he asked, hoping she would simply relax and not give into her habit of thinking too far ahead.

Sarah thought for a long moment before she answered. "No… I guess I didn't expect this, John. At least, not this soon." She had a slightly bemused look on her face, finally reaching to turn on the radio. Smooth jazz on WWFS would do until they decided on a CD or two.

"It's good to do something unexpected from time to time," Munch assured her. "Don't start getting nervous over this, Sarah. It's not a big deal."

"So you say," she quipped, a wry laugh escaping. Zelman settled into the seat, finally allowing herself to relax. There was no reason not to, she figured, after all she was with John, they were getting out of the city and both of them richly deserved a vacation. "By the way, I noticed you're packing. Habit?" It was hard to see the slight bulge of his pistol, but she knew what to look for in that regard.

"That's all it is, babe. You're packing too, aren't you?" he asked. "I noticed the shoulder holster I bought you wasn't in the closet before we left." Although she was used to her carry at her side, almost on her right hip, he wanted her to have a leather shoulder holster to better conceal her carry while they were at his mom's. The alternative was that she go without her Glock, something she hesitated to do in the best of situations.

"You know me well, John. My carry is my security blanket. I hope your Mom doesn't mind." She blushed, realizing she should have asked about it before they left her apartment.

"I can't remember the last time she's seen me without a gun or sometimes two on my person. She won't give it a second thought," he replied. "If Andy comes for dinner on Thursday, he'll be packing his .357 – he won't go anywhere without 'Baby.' He keeps a compact Glock in his ankle holster, too. Old habits die hard." He'd told her about his cousin, but had been careful not to be too specific about his choice of career. John wondered if he'd made the right decision in that regard, but it was too late for second-thoughts.

"Four guns between three of us," she replied. "Think that's enough fire power for one meal?"

"We'll be well armed if anyone decides to break in and take the turkey," he quipped, grinning.

"How many people will be there, you figure?" She wasn't sure exactly how many relatives John had, but with her luck they'd all be there. Zelman knew she was in too deep to back out now, yet she didn't really mind. The more, the merrier…or so she hoped.

"Let's see… My mom, of course," John began, "My brother, Bernie, and his wife, Marianne and their son, Ben. My half-brother, Jacob – everyone calls him Jake, so he's not confused with my Uncle Jacob, who'll also be there. Jake's wife, Debba, as well as their kids. I think they have three kids now." He paused for a moment, wondering if she was overwhelmed yet.

"Is Jake the drywall contractor you told me about?"

"He is. He's been in business since I was a teenager. I think he's worked on every house in Pikesville at some point."

"Who else will be there?" she asked, reaching into the lunch bag John had packed. Sarah pulled out a mini-sized peanut butter cup, gesturing as Munch nodded.

"My cousin, Lee Morgenstern will be there; he's my ex-CPA. I think I told you about him," he said. "Lee's sisters, Rhoda and Brenda, will also be there. They usually help with the cooking because it's all a bit too much for Mom these days."

"I can imagine. Sounds like quite a crowd," she replied, handing off the unwrapped Reese's to him.

"Thanks, babe." He glanced into the rear view mirror, changed lanes to avoid some of the heavier traffic and grappled with how to tell her about his Uncle Andrew's son.

"Who else will be there, you think?" Sarah resisted the urge to delve into the evil bag of sugar, vowing not to succumb to the siren call of cookies.

"I mentioned we'll have some of the kids around, but unfortunately most of them are a little too old to play with Ben. Some of Mom's friends also come for the holiday, since she's become more involved with one of the Reform shuls not far from the neighborhood." You're gutless, John. Stop stalling, he thought. "I need to talk with you about my cousin, Andy."

Sarah turned her attention to him, instead of looking out the window. "When you told me about him, you mentioned you're like brothers. Is he going to get tanked and dance in the punch bowl or something?" She hoped by making light of it, he'd simply say his cousin was the family black sheep or maybe he secretly played the ponies or something. She couldn't imagine a member of the Munch tribe being too bizarre, even though John did have considerable quirks.

John smiled at the thought of Andy as the family jester, remembering that he still had his moments no matter how far removed they were from childhood pranks. "Andy usually only surfaces around the last night of Hanukkah, but when I spoke with him he wanted to come for Thanksgiving. It's always a little up in the air with him, because he has no real schedule. He's with the CIA." He heard her sharp intake of breath and inwardly cringed.

"I take it you don't mean he's with the Culinary Institute of America," she quipped, trying to cover her reaction. "You didn't tell me about your cousin being a CIA agent." Because you didn't want me to know, John, she thought harshly. Wonderful.

"You didn't ask," he replied, trying to keep the concern from his voice. "Look, I know how you feel about the Bureau, so I wasn't about to mention the CIA." He knew the FBI was a very touchy topic after they'd forced her to retire.

"Sweetheart, I don't want to start us feuding, but when were you going to tell me? After he came up to me and flashed his fold-over?"

"I should have told you before, but I wasn't sure how to bring it up." He kept his gaze on the expressway, not afraid to look at her but certainly not wanting to see the evidence of his awkwardness. "Now you're angry with me." Munch could practically hear her blood pressure rise.

"No, I'm honestly not mad at you." She pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, reminding herself John and Andy were close. It didn't matter what her initial reaction was, she would have to deal with it as cordially as she could manage with the added caveat of being in front of all his people. "It'll be fine. He'll be a gentleman and I'm not about to get into an inter-agency catfight with him. No worries."

As much as she adored John, there were times when she wanted to strangle him as he slept. This certainly qualified as one of those occasions. She resumed looking out the window, careful to keep her expression as neutral as possible. Several long minutes passed, as she contemplated how it would all play out.

He was expert at reading her silences, this one no different from the other times he'd committed a sin of omission. "Sweetie, if I'd told you my cousin was a CIA agent before now, would it have made any difference?" If only he could have found a better way to tell her, than springing it while they were on their way. Smooth going, John, he thought ruefully. You've blown it now. Great way to break the news – by dropping it in her lap.

Sarah took out a CD from the center console, Acoustic Alchemy's smooth jazz washing away her irritation. Like John, she needed the time on the road to relax. The inevitable onslaught of questions would wear her down; still, she was determined to go with the flow and try not to be her normally highly-strung self in front of John's family.

"It probably wouldn't have changed anything," she finally admitted. "Is he going to give me grief over having been FBI?" Zelman knew from experience most inter-agency meetings never started out well. Spooks and ghosts only blended in Halloween legend, not in their real-life counterparts from Quantico and D.C.

"If he gets overbearing about it, I promise to call him off," John vowed, worried that Andy would be an ass in front of everyone. He knew full-well Munch family genetics fostered not only forthrightness but also an alarming lack of tact at times. "I'll talk with him, Sarah. He'll behave himself, you'll see."

"Like I said, no worries. It'll be fine, sweetheart." She knew she could trust John to have her back, no matter the circumstance. If he said he'd keep his cousin at bay, then he would. "What I see is that you're not wearing black. The gray suit looks terrific," she said, adroitly changing the subject. "So do those wingtips you're sporting, handsome."

Zelman was always gratified to be seen with John, who was always well turned out be it for work or otherwise. Like Munch, she'd never had any trouble attracting good-looking members of the opposite sex, but she easily considered him the most handsome man she'd ever known.

"Mom has a 'thing' about black suits. She thinks they're only for funerals." He knew better than to show up in his usual dark ensemble, lest his mother nag him about wearing black to a family reunion.

"Don't tell me, Bernie dresses only in black, too, right?"

"Hazard of his occupation," Munch acknowledged. "If we're lucky, he'll at least be in navy blue for Thanksgiving. You're getting ready to start with me about my wardrobe, aren't you?" he chastised lightly.

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," she said, admiring how well his suit went with his salt and pepper hair. "I just like how you look in gray, that's all. It's a nice change…kind of, I don't know…alluring."

He smiled, huffing softly to cover a smirk. "Go for diplomat, why don't you?"

She delved into the bag to take out a cookie, in hopes another boost of sugar would please him. "Oh, my time for diplomat's coming, there's no doubt about it. I get to be subjected to almost the entire Munch tribe, with their rampant curiosity." She handed off the double chocolate chip, thinking she should have taken a nibble of it before giving it over. "Talk about being diplomatic," she said, a smile on her face.

"At least you'll get a last meal before you're questioned to death," he replied, around a mouthful of cookie.

"I feel a little bit like a science fair exhibit, readied for the judging committee," she decided, thinking back to her middle school days. "I liked science fairs, though, so this will be a walk in the park."

"The incredible talking girlfriend – she walks, she eats, she chats, she shoots, she's an FBI spook under the mild-mannered guise of an NYPD sex crimes detective." John was doing his best carnival barker imitation, which always made Sarah giggle. When he did it at a crime scene, she usually gave him an elbow in the ribs for his efforts.

"Stop making me laugh, John. You're supposed to be serious," she reminded him. "You're taking me home to meet your mom. That's supposed to be some big milestone, or so I've heard." She'd hit her limit; she shoved her hand into the small brown bag and took out a mini Snickers bar – for herself this time.

"Did you ever meet Stranahan's family?" John was always insatiably curious about her relationship with her ex-boyfriend. He didn't have a lot to say about her ex-husband, but Dan Stranahan had kept her attention for five years, with little to commend him since he was almost icy in his representation of physical affection toward her.

"His daughters, sure; eventually he introduced me to his son, the almost-mythic U.S. Marshal. I was supposed to meet his mom, in Oregon, but we never made it out to see her."

"You don't exactly sound disappointed, sweetie," he replied.

"Because I wasn't the one who chickened out before the trip. I think he realized it wasn't completely politic to take a Jew home to his mom," she explained, residual heat coloring her tone. After all the years between them, she still hadn't completely forgiven Danny for backing out with no reason given. He didn't have to explain what she had suspected all along.

He glanced over at her, an incredulous expression on his features. "Are you implying he bailed on you? When you were supposed to meet his family?"

She shook her head, shrugged eloquently and decided he should know the truth. "That's exactly what he did, and I know it was because of religious differences. But it's okay, John, I was going under duress." She took out the CD they'd just listened to and swapped it with one by Hiroshima, an Asian jazz fusion group they both loved. "The thought of meeting his people made me so edgy, you have no idea. I was almost physically ill at the prospect because my nerves were ragged. I knew there was no way they'd accept me."

John found it sad she'd tried so hard to forge a relationship with someone so blatantly wrong for her. Lost years. Something else they had in common. "You're not 'edgy' about meeting my family, are you? At the very least, my family puts the 'fun' in dysfunctional."

She opened a small bottle of water, then handed it off so he could take a drink. "At least you can joke about it, which is a good sign. I can honestly say that no, I'm not as nervous about it as I expected to be." She took the bottle from him and had a sip, before settling it into the console between them. "All kidding aside, I'm looking forward to this, sweetheart. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I'm glad," he replied, taking her hand in his for a moment. "You know how much this means to me."

"I know." She'd seen the tell-tale sign he'd had his own moments of nervousness, as he scratched the side of his neck several times last evening. Sarah always worried when she saw him do so, as it was the signal he was on the verge of a silent anxiety attack. "Jewish moms can be pretty blunt, I know. Hope she likes me, because it's important she and I hit it off from the start."

"She will. I have no qualms about it whatsoever," he said. "One thing you have to remember about my mom, Sarah: She's the quintessential Yiddish momme. Once I was 'the man of the house,' her natural over-protective tendencies went into some sort of overdrive to compensate for Dad's no longer being there," he explained. "She's still that way, even today. Bernie gets a lot of it, since he and Marianne are around her a lot. Just…be ready for it, okay?"

"You're trying to tell me she's going to drive me nuts, aren't you?" John's mom sounded a lot like Sarah's neighbor, Mrs. Goldstein, whom she loved and considered a surrogate mom in many ways.

"In a word? Yes," he admitted. "If you're ready for it, it's not so bad. Your mantra while we're with her is, 'She means well.' Because she does."

"Considering my mom's the exact opposite, it'll be a welcome change, John. I'll try not to laugh while she's suffocating you with love," she replied, raising her brows.

He knew if she could stand the tidal wave of adoration, she and his mom would be on solid footing immediately. "I knew you'd understand. You truly don't realize how overjoyed she's going to be, not only because her eldest son is showing up on her doorstep, but because I'm not bringing home another shikse."

"Unless she decides I don't look Jewish," Zelman reasoned. "Wish I had a dime for every time I've heard that line."

John shook his head dismissively. "Bernie's wife doesn't look Jewish, particularly, and Mom's never had a problem with her. Besides, Marianne Goldfarb Munch has to be a little on the high-maintenance side, because of her career."

"At least she has a good reason for it, working with her husband at Munch Mortuary. I'm sure she also has to join Bernie at shul, too, since it's not only politic, it's almost a business necessity."

"You're absolutely right," he replied. "Promise me you won't be intimidated by first impressions, though. Marianne is a doll, one of the sweetest women you could ever meet."

He saw a collection of gas stations and fast-food restaurants ahead and debated stopping to stretch his legs. They still had plenty of gas in the tank, his legs weren't particularly bothering him, and Sarah wasn't fidgeting like she did when she'd spent too much time in the car. Still, a chance to get out and walk around for a bit won him over. "Marianne's managed to keep me from killing my brother when he gets too high and mighty for his own good. Thanks to her, there's been very little feuding between us."

"No worries there; I'm sure I'll like her a lot." She took another long pull from their water bottle. "I'm a complete 180-degrees from those other women you've brought home. Is that what you're trying to say?"

"Basically, yes. In all the best ways, babe." He took the exit, steering them into the Duncan Donuts parking lot. They could do with a little caffeine, he'd decided. Before he left the car, he looked at her with a soft smile on his face.

"Hope you're right about all of this, sweetheart. Otherwise, it's going to be the longest few days of my life." She winked at him and was rewarded by his full-throated musical laugh.

They walked into the coffee shop, hand in hand, with no need to worry about who saw them or what their reaction would be. They were out of Manhattan, both had relaxed during the drive thus far. Even more than that, they were together.

…_to be continued._


	2. Chapter 2

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Two

Drinks in hand, John led them to a table for two near the window. He'd considered getting a donut, but there were enough treats in the 'travel bag' to sustain him. He took a seat across from Sarah, checking his cell phone for messages, then his watch to keep track of time. He realized he was fidgeting, eager to get to his mother's. Munch noticed the expression on Zelman's face; he could always tell the subtle difference when a sudden thought struck her. "Something wrong?"

"John, did you actually tell your mom I was coming with you? Or are you springing some kind of bizarre surprise on her and your entire family?" she asked, wishing she'd thought to inquire before they were more or less an hour from Pikesville.

"I was so busy convincing you to come with me, the thought of calling her escaped me," he replied, looking down into his tea. It was only a half-fib, as he really hadn't thought of it until then. "She'll be fine, you'll see." He stretched out his long legs, gently kicking her shoe with one foot.

"Oh, dear God," she almost moaned. "John!" She gave him a look and shook her head almost sadly. "Hi, Mrs. Munch! I'm the latest girlfriend, dropped on your doorstep by your loving son, Johnny." She ripped open three packets of Sweet N' Low, stirred them into her soy latte and longed to be back in the squad room. "Don't sit there and chuckle, sweetheart. This is serious."

"Not half as serious as you think it is, Sarah," he decided. "You have no idea how much you're like my mom, because if I took out this cell phone," he pulled his phone from his pocket, "and called home right this minute, it would begin a tragic-comedy of events." He flipped open his phone, his head back as if he were trying to see the numbers. "Mom would use the next hour and handful of minutes worrying incessantly about whether or not the house was clean enough, if she had the kind of food you like, if you'd be happier staying there or if she needed to try and find us a hotel, on and on and on. By the way, the two of you worry about the same things, especially when it comes to yours truly."

"Which is why you love me, John, because you're the Sun in my universe," she snarked lovingly. "You have me and your mother wrapped around your finger. Must be good, huh?" She understood his reasoning, even agreed with it for the most part. She was the same way, though it was often difficult to admit. "Okay, you can put your phone away now."

"Thank you," he quipped. "I hoped you'd say that."

"Will Andy be bringing anyone?" she wondered aloud. "Or is he married to his job, like I used to be?" Sarah was starting to become a bit intrigued by Andy Munch, especially since he was a fellow Fed albeit in the loosest sense of the word.

"He's been through two exceptionally nasty divorces, his two collectively as bad as my four," John replied. "I'd be genuinely shocked if he showed up at Mom's with a woman or, to use his vernacular 'chick,' by his side. If you think I'm argumentative and outspoken, you haven't heard anything yet."

"At least you're not candy-coating anything," she admitted. "I take it he, unlike you, hasn't gotten over his bitterness?" Sarah was starting to put it all together, well-aware her perceptions of John could easily be shaken to their core by the time the weekend was through.

"Let's put it this way, his most recent ex-wife made Billie Lou look like a benevolent queen. Alexis Batemann only had one volume: shrill. Combined with one temperature setting: cold." He remembered trying to talk Andy out of the marriage only minutes before the wedding, but his cousin was determined to go forward with it. "I never said, 'I told you so,' but I had considered having him kidnapped long enough to miss the wedding." As he recalled, it hadn't been far from the truth as the men in the wedding party celebrated to excess Andy's few remaining hours as a 'free' man.

"Hopefully, he won't see us as something to be jealous over."

"With Andy, it will be hard to tell either way." He raised his brows and shrugged, taking Sarah's hand in his. "If it upsets him, then he'll just have to go out and get his own wonderful girlfriend. Because he can't have mine." He stood as she laughed softly, missing her chance to lightly kick him under the table. "Shall we finish this Bataan Death March now?"

She cringed at the comparison. "John, you are easily the most perverse fellow I've ever known," she replied.

"Why, thank you, sweetie." To him, her admonitions were often construed as a sincere compliment.

O0O

Once more inside the car, John leaned over and caught Sarah in a kiss as she buckled her seatbelt. They grinned at each other like college freshmen skipping out of class for the day. "No one to stare, no one to tell IAB, no one to hint we're too obvious in our affections." They kissed once more, a bit more leisurely, knowing they really didn't have to be in Pikesville at any particular time.

"We do have to back off on public displays while we're with your family," Sarah said, a bit hesitantly.

He shrugged, then reached for his seatbelt. "Why ever for? My family isn't cool to the touch, sweetie," he insisted. "You don't have to hide your feelings for me. That would be absurd, considering I'm taking you home to meet my people. Sarah, we can be ourselves." He started the engine, pulled out of the parking lot and found the ramp for Pikesville. "You won't have to panic if I wrap my arms around you, or try to find a place where no one will see us before you kiss me."

"Your mom won't think it's inappropriate?" she asked, concerned.

"She'd be more alarmed if we weren't caught smooching at least once or twice," he replied, hoping Zelman would be with him in the moment instead of on guard as she was in the squad room. Sometimes, being in love with a partner required sacrifices, but he was determined not to suffer them while home.

"John?"

"Hmmmm?"

"Is there anything I shouldn't mention, when I'm talking with your family? Aside from the obvious?" she added softly, referring to his father's suicide.

"You know, there is one thing. If she asks you about getting shot, please tell her it's never happened," he asserted. It was the one thing he was adamant about, basically all he asked of her for the duration of their trip.

"Lie? To your mother? Are you serious?" She stared at him, her mouth open slightly, unwilling to believe what he was asking her to do.

"Yes, I'm serious. You have to, Sarah," he replied. His tone forbade her to defy him. "You have to understand, it's for her own good." His mother wasn't an emotionally weak woman by any means, yet he felt it his duty to shield her from the worst of his – and Sarah's – world.

"How am I supposed to do that? Lying to your mother when I've just met her," she said, thoroughly agitated. "John – "

"I don't care how you do it, but I'm asking you to find a way," he replied, standing his ground. "Under no circumstances is she to know either one of us has ever been shot. I'd never hear the end of it, if she found out."

She knew he was upset, but she didn't realize how much until she glanced at the speedometer. He was doing just over 85 in a 65 m.p.h. zone. Rather than stress him even more by commenting on it, she decided to try and find out more about his sudden mandate. "Does Bernie know about this façade?"

"He does. He's been keeping a lot of secrets for me over the years," he replied. "The VICAP mission last year, when we were both hit? I told him, because I knew he should at least be aware of it, in case one of us was mentioned on the national news," he explained. "Above all, I could trust him not to tell Mom."

Zelman was beginning to soften, ready to join his cause because she understood. Still, it wasn't going to be easy if she had to brazenly lie to Mrs. Munch. "As far as your mom is concerned, you've never caught a bullet? Not even in Baltimore?"

"Never. Sarah, she'd probably lose her mind if she knew," he said. "Try not to let her lead you down that path."

Zelman found it almost intriguing, in a way, that Munch had been able to keep such things a secret for so long. "When Beau, Kay and Stanley were shot, didn't she know about all that? C'mon, John… She had to know."

"She knew, sure, because of all the media coverage. You have no idea how many times I had to reiterate to her that I wasn't shot in the melee." In between hours spent at Bolander's bedside, he'd had to calm his mother and allay her fear each evening with a phone call. Every time the media sensationalized the case, she'd quietly panic anew. He'd ached each time he heard the tension and trepidation in her voice. "After that, I knew there was no way she'd cope if I took a bullet in the line of duty."

"Sweetheart – "

"She would literally have a nervous breakdown. Tell me you'll keep my secrets," he urged. "For her sake, if nothing else." He glanced down at the speedometer, easing off the gas a bit as he realized he'd been speeding. The last thing he needed was to try and talk his way out of a ticket.

"You know I always will," Sarah finally decided. "If she brings it up, I'll redirect it. Count me in as someone else who'll keep your secrets." She nodded, somehow knowing he was right. His instincts always were on target, she had to admit. "It'll be fine, John. No worries."

"Good, because she'll plotz if she knows you've taken a bullet, too."

Now Zelman was completely flummoxed. "What? Why on earth would she worry about me?" It seemed absurd John's mother would spare so much as a thought on someone she hadn't met. "She hasn't even met me yet."

"I've told her a lot about you, Sarah. She knows how close we are, babe," he explained. "If she knew you'd been shot, she'd start asking a lot of incisive questions about where I was in the situation and why I wasn't able to protect you."

"You can't always be there," she replied. "We back each other up as best we can. Certainly she understands how partners work."

"She does, Sarah, but she's from the generation where women weren't cops and men were responsible for their safety," he said. "Not too much unlike our rule. If you're not packing, I'm by your side after dark." It had taken him quite a while to get her to go along with his wishes, but she respected how he felt. Now, he was asking her to respect his mother's feelings as well.

"Got it. Don't worry, John. I never told my mom about it, either. She didn't ask, though, which made it easier." Her mind drifted back to her supervisor at the Bureau, another man who always wanted to keep her safe. She missed him terribly, but laughed softly at the thought of how anxious he'd get whenever she was on a mission. "Steve DiMarco used to worry about me, too. The second time I caught a slug, he started calling me 'Magneto.'"

John couldn't help it; he started to laugh, trying to hide it with a cough but failing miserably. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be laughing, since I know how many times you've been shot and it's been serious. But 'Magneto'? He had gallows humor down to an art form." He glanced over at her and shook his head. "You let him get away with calling you that, instead of Tigress?"

She still had a smile on her face as she explained it. "I did, because it was his way of coping with the dangers of the job. They used Tigress for my code name, so 'Magneto' was a joke Steve and I kept to ourselves. When he was a kid, he used to collect comic books."

She'd been both proud and relieved, since she was one of only a handful of agents with whom DiMarco had been emotionally close. She was glad he'd been able to joke about the hazards of the job with someone who understood. "He dubbed me that after I caught a slug he was in line for, thanks to mistakes made by another agent. He was such a hoot; I wish you could have met him. Best boss I've ever had, aside from Don Cragen."

"Why haven't you ever told your mom?" he asked, curious. "Afraid she'd react like mine?"

"No. It would trigger a lot of bad memories for her. She fell apart when Dad was killed, which isn't surprising," she replied. "Mom has a deep fear of guns, which is another reason I try never to mention it. Only my sister knows when I catch a bullet, or that you and I sometimes take a slug for each other." She thought of the first time her sister had been notified by Steve. It had been emotionally disastrous – 3,000 miles between them, with Bear sworn to secrecy. "It's tough enough on her. If Mom knew, it would make everyone's life a lot harder."

Munch reached over and gave Zelman's hand a gentle squeeze. "We'll do our best to keep each other's secrets."

"You can count on me, John," she vowed. "I'm not about to upset your mom, at least not if I can help it."

Munch was so caught up in how much more he was learning about his friend, lover and partner, he let his curiosity run away with him. As he had quizzed her on her relationship with Dan Stranahan, he was equally intrigued with her friendship with the DiMarco family. His experience had been nothing less than icy with most Feds, because they tended to keep to themselves, or so he thought. The only exception he'd known was his cousin, with whom he'd grown up.

"Sweetie?"

"Yes?"

"Could I ask you something about Steve?" he asked cautiously, hoping he wasn't treading on dangerous ground.

"Sure," she said, a bit hesitantly.

"Last weekend, when you said you needed time to be with the DiMarcos, what did you do together?"

"We… She paused for a long moment, his question catching her a bit off guard. "We did what we all used to do when Steve was still alive. I took everyone out for turkey, then we went to see a movie. Afterwards, we went back to their place," she explained, knowing it was now merely Janelle DiMarco's place, "and the kids had ice cream while they watched a DVD. Janelle and I had a couple glasses of wine and talked about the past."

He knew she meant, 'tried to make sense of the past,' because no one could fully understand why terrorists had flown planes into the Twin Towers. Random acts of violence were hard enough to cope with on the mean streets, but this was far, far beyond anyone's comprehension.

A little over a year later, he still held her when she'd bolt wide-awake in the night, trembling uncontrollably, sure she'd heard jets overhead. He had been forced to consider her post-traumatic stress disorder before he'd decided to bring her home, hopeful a change in scenery would somehow help ease the emotional scars of the past.

…_to be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Three

He pulled the Saturn to the curb in front of the well-kept home, aware if his mother looked out the window she'd wonder whose car was there. "I promise not to use my key," Munch joked, "because she'd get rattled if we walked straight in on her."

"Don't even joke about that," Sarah replied, a warning look in her eyes. "The poor woman is about to be shocked enough as it is." She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Oh, sweetheart… I think I'm shaking inside."

He squeezed her hand gently, turning her toward him. "Think of it as walking a little farther into our life," he said softly. "There's no reason to be nervous, because as far as I'm concerned you're already a part of this family." He kissed her lightly, studying her face for a moment as he wondered if she was finally ready to take the next step.

"Thank you, John. I didn't think of it that way, but you've got a point." She smiled, returning his kiss before momentarily pulling away from his grasp. "C'mon, let's go see Mom."

He wore a tight smile as he tried not to give in to his own rush of emotion. He got out of the car, went to the passenger side and opened the door for her. With his hand against the small of her back, they walked to the front porch. She smoothed her hair as he rang the doorbell.

"One moment!" he heard his mother call out. He wondered if she was baking bread, as was her habit the Tuesday and Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

He heard the door being unlocked, unsure if she'd looked through the peephole first. His answer was her practically flinging open both the interior door and the screen. "Mom!"

"Johnny! Almeu Dumnezeu!" Mrs. Munch was suddenly dwarfed by her son, the two of them in a tight embrace. "Johnny…I'm so happy to see you!"

Sarah knew her foreign exclamation better as 'Mein Gott' or 'Bohze Moi,' and recognized the Romanian for "My God." She smiled as John's mom held him in a deceptively forceful hug, accentuating the height difference between them.

"Oh, Johnny, you've come home!" she said happily, almost unbelieving it was true.

"Mom… How are you? You look great!" he said, and hugged her again as she started to let go. He had missed her even more than he thought, if that were possible.

"I'm good, Johnny. Better, now that you're home," she replied.

John's mother was a five-foot-three dynamo with beautiful salt and pepper hair, cut gently, framing her softly featured face. Her deep brown eyes seemed to sparkle when she saw her son. She turned her attention to his guest who stood smiling, ready to be introduced. "And who is this?" she asked brightly.

"Mom, this is Sarah Zelman," John said, a sense of pride coloring his tone. "I talked her into coming with me."

"Welcome, Sarah!" She was so thrilled, she pulled Zelman into a warm hug. "It's nice to finally meet you – John's told me so much!"

Sarah felt her initial nervousness melt away, as she returned Ruth's embrace. "Mrs. Munch, it's a pleasure to meet you," she said, relieved her voice hadn't left her. "I hope John didn't throw you a curve by bringing me along."

John's mother stood back, gazing at the pair; her first thought was how well they seemed to go together. "Please, call me 'Ruthie.' It's no imposition at all, Sarah. I'd suggested he bring you and I'm so glad he did!" She noticed her son was holding his girlfriend's hand, a gesture she knew had been lost on his other pursuits.

"Thank you, Ruthie. Really, it's great to meet you, after everything John's mentioned."

"Where are your coats? It's freezing out here."

"They're in the car," John answered. "It was warm in the car, so we took them off."

"Where are my manners? We should go inside, where it's warm," she insisted. "Johnny, Sarah, come in and have some tea before you bring things in from the car." Ruth opened the door as they dutifully followed her inside, the scent of home cooked food in the air.

John was grinning as he walked inside, able to smell his favorite bread in the oven. "You're making walnut sweet bread?" he asked.

"Like I do every year," Ruth replied. "I made one ahead of time, so you could have some before Thursday." She led the way into the kitchen, a sunny room furnished in light oak cabinets, spotless linoleum, bric-a-brac and canisters on the counters. "Both of you sit for a while and I'll make us some tea. I could use a break myself," she said, a large mixing bowl and lightly floured section of counter evidence of her hard work.

"Tea would be great, Mom," John decided. "How've you been? I see you're using the bread machine." It beeped to let them know another loaf was ready to remove for cooling, as she put an enameled teakettle on the stove.

"Things have been good, Johnny," she answered. "If I looked hard enough, I might be able to find something to complain about," she joked, taking the finished bread out of the machine. "You should know this thing has saved me a lot of work this year. It was good of you and Bernie to get it for me, even though I could live without the beeping." She quickly opened the oven door, grabbed potholders and pulled out a pan of walnut bread, a type she lovingly made without the machine's help. "Some things are still best made from scratch."

She smiled, taking out three large mugs. "I'm still working with the accountant over at the mortuary, to break him in on how I want things done."

"Mom's an accountant," John explained. "She audits the books each year at Munch Mortuary."

"That's wonderful," Sarah replied. "It's nice not to have to rely on too many people outside the family."

"I took over the books when the previous accountant was a week late with balance statements," she said, a bit hotly. "Maybe sometime Johnny can tell you about Lee, his cousin, Pikesville's most scatter-brained CPA." She poured hot water into the mugs and reached for a small basket of tea bags. "You'll find out about all that soon enough," she decided as John helped her bring everything to the table. He saw a plate of sliced pound cake on the counter, wrapped in clear plastic, bringing that as well.

"My life isn't half as exciting as yours," she said, sitting down at the table with them. "Johnny's told me so much about you… How you worked for the FBI and now you're working with the NYPD. Do you enjoy your work?"

"Let's put it this way, the work is very gratifying, but we both wish the world didn't need us." Zelman flipped through the tea bags in the basket, finding some Earl Grey. "It's more personal on the NYPD level than it was with the Feds, which is good. We accomplish a lot, don't we, John?"

"Yes, we certainly do. There's a lot to be said for putting away the dregs of mankind." He unwrapped the pound cake, offered some to his mom, then to Sarah.

"When Johnny first said you were partners, I didn't know he meant it in this way," she said, her tone approving. "How long have the two of you been together like this?"

John noticed the question had been leveled at Sarah, his mother's dark eyes watching her reaction over the rim of her mug. He immediately bolted to Zelman's rescue, before she had time to answer. "Mom… Maybe Sarah would like a moment or two, before you start with the questions?"

She gave him a quick wink, to let him know it was okay. After all, she'd had plenty of time to mentally prepare for a veritable firing line of questions. "It's okay, sweetheart," she assured him. "We've been together almost from the moment he found me in the Trade Center, you could say. At least, I think it counts as being from that point on, don't you?"

"It's a hell of an anniversary, but it counts," he agreed, leaning over to kiss her cheek. "A little over a year and a couple of months and so far, no regrets on either side." He grinned as she nudged him lightly with her elbow. "We disagree from time to time at work, but we made a pact it never crosses the doorway."

Ruth nodded, glad they had worked it out. "Working together can be stressful. Bernie and Marianne can tell you, since they both run the family business. With them, it's all hours of the day and night. Is it the same with you?"

"You know how it goes for police, Mom. We do have shifts, but because five of us are senior members of the squad, we get calls at all hours. It's a lot like when I worked homicide," John replied.

"It's great to finally have some time off, though," Sarah decided. "How about I bring things in from the car, while you relax? After all, you did the driving." She smiled inwardly at the knowledge he wouldn't have let her drive anyway, not only because she didn't know the route, but because he preferred the sense of control driving gave him.

"Johnny, you should help with the schlepping," his mother said gently.

"It's okay, Ruthie," Sarah interjected. "He hauled everything to the car this morning. I should bring it in. It's only fair."

"You're sure?" he asked, ready to get up and help as she waved him off.

"I've got it, no problem," she replied, car keys in hand.

Once they heard the front door click closed, Ruth Munch began to question her son in earnest. "Johnny… 'Zelman,' eh? So this is the one you've told me you're sure about," she said appreciatively. "I thought I should live so long as to see you bring home a nice Jewish girl. Is she Reform, Conservative or Orthodox?" While she realized her son hadn't exactly been religious after his father's suicide, she did hope he'd feel a renewed sense of responsibility in going to shul if his girlfriend desired.

He knew where she was going with this, but there was no way he could avoid it. "Conservative, Mom. She's fairly observant, too," he admitted.

"Conservative? Have the two of you been to shul together?"

Here it comes, he thought, the big discussion of why you're not headed to the synagogue every Friday evening or Saturday morning. "No. You know the temple near my place – it's Orthodox. They'd make us sit apart." It was one thing to go to shul, but he drew the line at Orthodoxy dictating where he should sit and with whom.

"What's the worry? It's only for an hour or so; this would kill you?" she prodded. "You should go back to temple, Johnny." Bernie, his wife and son always went every Saturday morning, almost without fail. She wondered why John couldn't possibly do the same, at least once in a while. Granted, his father hadn't particularly been a religious man, but Ruth's husband had been spiritual in his own way. At times like these, she quietly worried about her son's skepticism toward organized religion. She had no idea Sarah often felt the same as John. "How about near her place? Maybe a temple closer to Sarah's?"

"Her place is near my place. We're a couple blocks from each other."

"Why isn't she with her family? Have you met her family?"

He loved his mother too much to get aggravated, well-aware he'd inherited her insatiable curiosity. Yet she was asking questions so quickly, even he was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. If she ever got a perp in the box, he thought, they'd never stand a chance. "Mom, you're interrogating me, now stop. Or at least, slow down with the questions. Let me answer one, before you hit me with more. Please?" He reached over and took her hand in his.

"Okay… You're right, I am asking too many questions," she admitted. "I'm interested, though, Johnny. She seems like a good person and you know how my instincts are. I realize how much you loved Gwen, but I knew in my heart it wouldn't work out. I don't have that sense of dread with Sarah."

She gave his hand a squeeze, still finding it almost hard to believe he was there with her. New York wasn't too far away, yet it seemed like the distance from the Earth to the Moon. She'd never quite gotten over his moving away from Baltimore, but she understood why. After so many failed relationships, especially when he'd discovered his first wife had slept with a colleague after their divorce, he'd needed a profound change in his life. Retirement from the Baltimore P.D. had left him restless, edgy and ultimately rudderless. Now, here he was, finally home with a new woman in his life, a new sense of purpose about him.

"She's not with her family, because they're in California. I've met her sister and talked with her mom; they're good people, you don't have to worry. I'll meet the rest of them sometime soon, I'm sure." Realistically, he had no idea when he'd meet her brother, whom he knew she loathed, or her brother-in-law whom she loved like blood kin.

Ruth considered this, also wondering when he'd find time to travel across the country. "Her father's last name is Zelman, and – "

"Yes, and she lost her father very early. It happened a couple of days before her eighth birthday," he added, saddened at the memory of when she'd told him.

"Johnny, that's awful," she said, her hand to her mouth as she tried to suppress a gasp. "What happened?"

Munch took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "He was murdered, Mom. Shot to death, a few miles from their home. The case was never closed." He often wondered if it was the reason she'd become a cop. He hadn't asked, nor had she volunteered.

Ruth's eyes widened at the thought of such misfortune. "God rest his soul. I'm so sorry… This happened in California?"

"No, in Chicago, her hometown," he explained, taking another sip of tea long gone cold. "After he was killed, she grew up fast and did her best to hold her family together, over the years. She still does, in a lot of ways." It was true, he knew. While he was on the phone to his mother each Sunday, Sarah was usually on the phone with her mother or sister. Often, a slim fraction of the following day was spent solving a family situation long-distance. It didn't interfere with solve ratios, thus their Captain didn't involve himself in her affairs.

She looked at him, sadness in her dark eyes as she nodded. "You and Sarah share a lot in that regard, Johnny." None of wives or past girlfriends had understood the emotional load he carried, the pain of knowing his last words to his father were beyond harsh, unwittingly hateful. "She knows what happened to your father?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, Mom, she does. It's okay… She understands." When he'd told her, she had taken it in without the immediate patronizing hug of his past wives and girlfriends.

Zelman hadn't forced platitudes about his father 'being in a better place' or 'finally getting out of his emotional pain.' Sarah had let him vent, then seemingly absorbed his pain as her own and waited for him to ask why she had never mentioned her father. Suicide, murder…in some ways they shared a bond of blood. Both tragedies had induced profound loss in their young lives, both of them eventually having to step up and try to fill the gap as best they knew how.

Suddenly, it dawned on Ruth she hadn't seen Sarah in quite a while. "Where is she? I hope I didn't scare her off. Did she bring things in?" she asked. "I didn't hear the door."

"She's very quiet. I saw her take things into the hall," John answered. "She must have grabbed her coat, then gone out to the backyard. Sarah doesn't get a lot of time to sit and meditate, unfortunately." Their time to think was usually confined to sessions on the roof of the Sixteenth Precinct, comparing notes on the latest case. "She's probably at the picnic table, enjoying the change of scenery while giving us time to chat."

"I feel bad we got talking and lost track of time, though," Ruth said. "Let me go find her."

"No. It's fine. I'll go get her in a while," he assured her, aware it wouldn't be an issue with Sarah. "Don't feel bad, Mom. She needs time to adjust and she's taking it right now. She's also perceptive – she knew we needed some time, too. She doesn't want to intrude." Zelman had known all along Munch needed to be with his mother, solo, because there would be a host of questions Ruth would only ask of John.

"I get the impression she never could intrude. Still, you could have told me she was coming with you, Johnny," she chastised gently. "Don't you both want something for lunch?"

"It is lunchtime, isn't it? Sure, now that you mention it, I'm ready for something to eat. Sarah probably is, too." He checked his watch, finding the time a bit later than he initially thought.

Ruth studied him critically, her gaze on his waistband. "Does she feed you? You look so thin…" she said, as she had at least ten thousand times before. "Are you okay? You're not coming down with something, are you?"

John couldn't help himself, laughing at the way his mother always thought he never ate. "I'm fine, Mom, perfectly fine. There's no need to worry. Sarah's a very good cook by the way, she makes things for me all the time. She makes me anything I want, which is usually brisket."

"Is that the only thing she makes? Brisket? Johnny – "

"Of course not," he corrected her. "She's got some amazing recipes for chicken." The night before last, she'd made him Chicken Paprikas again. He'd brought over a full-bodied Chardonnay to celebrate their upcoming road trip. The night had ended exactly as he'd hoped. "I promise we don't live on take-out food; to the contrary, she feeds me better than I could cook for myself."

"It does my heart good to know, Johnny. Gwen hardly ever cooked, so you had to do it. I'm glad you learned something from watching me all those years," she replied. He'd almost always done his homework at the kitchen table. Before she knew it, he'd picked up a lot of her cooking techniques and recipes. It had all come in very handy when he had to develop a menu for The Waterfront. "You said she stays kosher, for the most part."

"She does. Not 'Orthodox kosher' though, so it's easier," he replied.

Hearing that, Ruth began to fret a bit, wondering what to offer Sarah for meals. "All the more reason you should have told me, Johnny."

"Why? Have you started putting sausage in the stuffing?" he asked pithily.

"Hey!" she shot back hotly.

"What?" He had a wry smile on his face. Sometimes, razzing his mom was too much fun.

"You know I'd never do such a thing!" she replied. "I did plan on making crab cakes, which I know are treyfe. Maybe I shouldn't…" Ruth Munch's crab cakes were the stuff of legend, made with large lumps of impeccably fresh crab from her favorite fish market.

"Mom, make the crab cakes. It won't bother Sarah in the slightest." He stood, taking his mug and Sarah's to the sink. "I didn't tell you she was coming, because you get absolutely meshugge over things like this. Relax…"

"I'm trying to, but I have this urge to sit your girlfriend down at the table and try to get to know her. Will she talk with me, you think?" Ruth was, in her own quiet way, seriously concerned about making the right impression.

"Of course she will. She'll probably answer every one of your questions, at least until she passes out from exhaustion," he added mischievously.

"Johnny, I'm your mother," Ruth reminded him sternly. "Don't be such the wise-ass with me." He'd always spoken his mind, often to her chagrin, but she still adored him.

"I'm not. I'm only saying, if you want answers, ask Sarah," he replied. "She'll understand."

"I wouldn't want her to get a mad on, you know. Especially since she's a guest in our house."

"A word of advice: Don't treat her like a 'guest,' Mom," he said. "Treat her like family."

He found his coat, shrugged into it and started for the back door. Before he opened it, his mother caught him, her firm hand on his sleeve. "Mom? What's wrong?"

"Johnny," she whispered, "are the two of you…you know…schtupping?"

"Mom! What is with that?" he asked, indignant. "Every time, too!"

"Well, if you're sleeping in my bed, you're not doing it! Answer me, Johnny," she demanded. "You've been with her several months now."

He loosed a frustrated sigh, suddenly aware he was not going to see any action for the next several days…and nights. It was far too late for a hotel, which meant he'd have to make the best of it. He and Sarah both would. "Long enough that, yes, we're intimate with each other – but not while we're here, okay?" The same rule had applied with every female he'd ever brought into his parents' home, whether he'd married the woman or not.

"Good," she said. Ruth looked at her son and smiled. "She's prettier than the others, you know." Mrs. Munch knew her son had a way of attracting often-stunning women, but this one had an element of simplistic beauty about her she found refreshing.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," John quipped, grinning.

"Johnny! Enough with being the wise-ass, you," she warned, failing miserably at being stern. "I mean it."

He caught her in a hug, wishing for the moment he'd never have to return to Manhattan. "Then enough with all the questions, okay?"

"Fine," Ruth agreed. "You're serious about this girl." It wasn't a question, but a statement. In a tone of voice John hadn't heard before; a deep-seated softness which gave way to quiet happiness.

"Yes. I love Sarah very much." He was amazed at how easily he could say it, how 'right' it felt.

"Johnny, this is the first time you've done something I've always hoped you'd do," she replied. "I don't want to make a mess of it for you." She realized they were still holding each other, neither wanting to let go. For once, it didn't feel to her like she had to let him go, or that Sarah would force him to let go of family ties as some of his previous relationships had urged.

"Don't worry, Mom…you won't." He knew in his heart there was nothing she would ever do to come between him and Sarah. As his mother turned up the collar on his coat, he kissed her on the cheek. "It's one of the million reasons why I love you."

He walked out into the backyard, watching the way sunlight highlighted Sarah's hair, the reddish-blonde momentarily making him think of autumn. He walked across the yard, crunching leaves underfoot as he went to the other side of the redwood picnic table. John saw her eyes were closed against the bright sun, a Mona Lisa smile on her face.

"Have a good chat?" she asked, opening her eyes to look at him. "I hope she wasn't angry over my disappearing act. Once I walked out here, I felt so at home I didn't want to move."

"I explained to her you were giving us time. She wanted to make sure you didn't feel unwelcome," he replied, looking at her over the top of his darkened lenses.

"Far from it. I was sitting out here listening to the wind in the trees, my favorite kind of music," she said, taking his hand as he reached for her. "It's gorgeous here… It's sunny, the rest of the leaves are still coming down from that maple." She cocked her head and looked up at the top of the tree. "When I was a kid, the neighbors had one like yours. We weren't allowed to climb it, but I sure wanted to."

"I wasn't allowed to climb this one, either, after I fell out of it and broke my wrist." He winced at the memory, having been reminded more than once that his mother was forced to help him with his paper route. Getting up early hadn't been an issue, but folding and throwing papers was something she hadn't bargained for in those days.

Sarah laughed, not quite the reaction he'd expected. "Oh, no! John, I'll bet your mother had a fit!"

"More like instant, complete apoplexy, but you're absolutely right," he agreed. "After which, Bernie never stood a chance in hell of climbing anything that wasn't low to the ground and extensively padded." He grinned, because it hadn't been too far from the truth. Suddenly, everything had been suspect, even something as harmless as bouncing on a mattress was potentially a dangerous proposition. His mother eventually eased up, but it had taken a while.

"Poor Bernie…" She momentarily hung her head, knowing the youngest kid usually suffered for the older one's sins.

"Wait, no – you're supposed to feel sorry for me," he insisted, laughing, "because I took one for the team."

"Somehow, I don't think your mom would see it the same way." They sat in silence for a few moments, reveling in being together. "All the beautiful trees are something I never noticed about this area when I was with the Bureau. I wasn't able to get too far from D.C. or Quantico when I was around this side of the country."

"Now you can enjoy it at your leisure."

"Right now, I can enjoy you at my leisure, too," she replied, leaning over the table to reach him for a kiss.

Ruth watched out the window of the back door while they left the table and joined in a lengthy kiss, their arms around each other. Mrs. Munch smiled when John placed his hand against Sarah's cheek, a gesture Ruth recalled from the days when her husband was alive. A groundswell of emotion filled her, as she remembered how it had been those many years ago. When she saw her son, he reminded her so much of his father. Strong. Protective. Loving.

Sarah broke free with a child-like giggle, picked up a huge handful of fallen maple leaves and gleefully flung them at John. He swore revenge, retaliating, showering her hair with a bomb of reddish-brown as they both acted like kids. They carried on for a few minutes, finally hugging after they brushed the leaves from each other's coats. John tipped her face upward as they kissed once more, the spicy-sweet scent of leaves in the air.

Ruth tapped on the glass, smiling, as she waved to John and Sarah. As they waved back and started for the door, she hoped neither would notice the tears welling in her eyes.

…to be continued…


	4. Chapter 4

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Four

The three shared a late lunch of cold cuts and delicatessen salads, their sandwiches made with fresh pumpernickel from a local bakery. John helped himself to more potato salad as his mother reached for her purse slung over the back of her chair.

"I need you to run an errand for me, Johnny. Would you do that?"

"Sure, Mom. Where?" he asked, as she pushed a couple large bills into his hand. He arched his brows, putting the money into his wallet. "Grocery shopping?"

"Not today. I need you to go pick up my order at Reichel's," she replied. "Six pounds of fresh crabmeat. The order is under my name – just ask for Ralph, he'll get it for you." She reached for her purse again. "Take my car; you're not using your gas."

"It's okay. I'll take ours," he decided, a glance toward Sarah confirming it. Technically, it was hers, but he knew she wouldn't mind. "You need this right away?"

"As long as it's today, because I'm mixing them tomorrow to cook on Thursday."

He stood, took his plate to the sink and looked at Sarah. "Want to go along to the local fishmonger's?" John knew she'd say no, because his mom was making busywork for him with an errand she usually ran on her own. He could tell she wanted to get him out of the house for one reason only – to talk with his girlfriend. Alone.

"I'll stay here, if you don't mind," Sarah replied. "Maybe there's something I can help Ruthie with while you're gone." She smiled, aware she was about to be questioned, probably from the moment he closed the front door.

O0O

John knew a trip to Reichel's would take maybe thirty minutes at the most, not giving his mother and Sarah nearly enough time to get to know each other. He drove instead to 2711 West Sawyer Place, entering the drive of Munch Mortuary. Pulling past three well-polished hearses and several Lincoln Town Cars, all black, all spotless, he found a place in the parking lot.

Bernard Munch had grown what they all referred to as 'the family business' into a deeply respected funeral home of a size able to compete with anyone else in the greater Baltimore area. He'd been helped of course by John's discreet recommendations to grieving family members, encountered almost daily as a homicide detective while with the Baltimore P.D.

Bernie had never taken his brother's referrals for granted, despite an occasional twinge of guilt over a seemingly endless stream of customers. Over time, he decided someone had to assist in the burials of the city's dead; at least he could be depended upon for both compassion and empathy.

As John pulled open one of the heavy mahogany doors and stepped inside, on to plush slate gray carpeting, he took a deep breath of cool, sterile air. His Transitions lightened in the lowered illumination of the rear lobby as he looked around a bit. He wasn't more than five steps inside when one of his brother's somberly dressed associates greeted him.

"May I be of assistance, sir?"

"Is Bernard available?" Munch asked, having seen what the thought was his brother's car in the parking lot.

"He is. May I tell him who's inquiring?"

Smooth, he had to admit. You had to be smooth when trying to assuage grief. "Please let him know his brother's here, from New York."

"I'll let him know right away," the fellow said. "Would you like to sit down?"

"No, thank you. I'll wait here."

The gentleman went off in the direction John recognized as toward Bernie's office. He idly wondered where Marianne was, then remembered she was probably at home because Ben wasn't in school – Thanksgiving break. Before he could give it more thought, he heard footsteps in the hallway.

"As I live and breathe…if it isn't my older brother, the cop." Bernard's face lit up when he smiled.

"That's intrepid detective to you," he corrected, a grin on his face. "Bernie, how've you been?" He took a couple quick steps toward his brother, closed the gap and hugged him. "You look like life's treating you well."

"I'm good…can't complain, especially since everyone's healthy and business is more than adequate." He tipped his head back slightly, regarding his brother with a critical eye. "Johnny, you're home a few days early this time."

"Gives me more time to hang around here and keep you company," he razzed. "You don't have to sound so overjoyed, you know."

"Don't get me wrong," he retorted. "I'm extremely happy to see you. I'm simply a bit surprised."

"You're about to give me the third degree because I'm home earlier than usual?" John asked, a bit puzzled.

"No, because you know I'm pleased to see you," Bernie admitted. "More so because Mom called me. It was only for the briefest moment, but she said you brought someone home to meet everyone."

"Telegraph, television, tell-a-mom," John said, with his usual level of sarcasm. "I should have known." Sarah had probably stepped out of the kitchen long enough for his mother to send up a veritable smoke signal, he thought.

"Care to tell me all about it?"

"Sure. If we're going to dissect my love life like a frog in biology class, then let's talk about this in private, shall we?" John knew he was about to be taken to task by his brother, probably because he sprung Sarah on Mom at the last possible moment. She had seemed completely okay with it, but now the older Munch wondered if he had made an error in judgment after all.

Rather than sitting with his desk between them, Bernie gestured toward a round cherry wood table. On the way down the hall, he'd motioned to the executive assistant who worked with both him and his wife; moments later, she brought in china and a silver tea service to pour for both men as they settled themselves at the table.

Murmuring his gratitude, John hardly waited for the door to close before he asked, "Mom called you? What – exactly – did she say? Was she upset?"

"Far from it, brother mine. She told me how happy she is, for one," Bernie answered. "For another, she sounded delighted Sarah wanted to spend time with her, instead of clinging to your side." He carefully poured a bit of cream into his tea, took a sip and added a sugar cube. "I wish you'd told me you were bringing her home, Johnny. I feel as if you've left me out of the loop somehow." He wasn't angry in the slightest, but he had expected his brother to clue him in before Zelman was simply delivered on their mother's doorstep.

"I would have called, but it was a last-minute thing, Bernie. I didn't even know if she'd say 'yes' when I asked her," he explained. "It didn't take a lot of convincing, fortunately." John took a sip of tea, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You've been saying for the past six months you'd like to meet her," he reminded him. "Now's your chance."

"Before that happens, Johnny," he began, "I have a few questions for you."

O0O

"Ruthie, is there anything I can help you with?" Sarah asked, desperate to simply do something, anything; even it was washing dishes, taking out the trash, whatever remedial task Mrs. Munch would assign her. She answered questions better when she was too busy or distracted to think about how to phrase things.

"Everything's in good shape," she replied. "I've put the next batch of bread in the oven, the bread machine is on the bake cycle, there's nothing to do at the moment." Ruth refilled the kettle with water, heating it for afternoon tea. "Would you like some tea, Sarah? I was about to make some for myself."

Now we're about to get down to business, she thought. "I'd love some, thank you."

Ruth opened a canister of cookies and placed some on a small china plate. "Here, let me put these macaroons on the table. Would you rather have some cake? I have chocolate cake in the pantry…it's Johnny's favorite. Raspberry filling, too," she offered.

"Thanks… I'm good, really. Cookies are fine, especially macaroons," Sarah replied. She silently wondered how the Munch family remained so thin, since they all seemed to share a love of sweets.

John hadn't stopped eating and snacking since early that morning, leaving Sarah to think the family was aptly named – Munch. He'd return to Manhattan with no appreciable weight gain, yet she'd be spending more time than ever in both the weight room and yoga classes once they returned. She relented and took a chocolate macaroon, one of her favorite cookies. "Did you make these, Ruthie?"

"No, those are Rokeach. Ben loves them, I always have them on hand." She took down a couple mugs, filling them each with hot water before adding an Earl Gray tea bag. Ruth carried the mugs to the table, passed one to Sarah and then sat down. "So, you and Johnny – everything going well between the two of you?"

Sarah took a tentative sip of her tea before answering. "Things are great between us. It seems like the longer we're together, the better things are," she replied. "It's good being partners at the precinct, too. I don't work with John exclusively, though – sometimes I'm paired with another detective in the squad."

Ruth raised her brows a bit. "Johnny said you used to work for the FBI. You're too pretty to have been a spy, a nice girl like you," she said.

Sarah blushed hotly at the compliment. "Thank you, but I wasn't a spy, no. My job was basically the same as what I do now, with the Special Victims Unit. We tracked criminals who weren't caught by city and state police." She was trying hard not to be nervous. Nerves would send her delving back into the plate of macaroons before she realized it.

"I know what the SVU does, because I made my son tell me," Ruth said candidly. "Sex offenders. It all sounds…tawdry and illicit, which I know it is. It must be. Doesn't your job bother you?" She shuddered at the thought of both of them working in all that depravity. "You did it for the FBI and now you're with the NYPD; that's a lot of time to be working in such a cesspool, Sarah."

"Yes, Ruthie, it is," she agreed. "But the job has to be done, even if it means emotional wear and tear are part of it all." Zelman had come to terms with it in her own way long ago, aware from early in her life she was emotionally strong enough to face the worst of humanity head-on.

She nodded her head sadly, thinking of how her son would be so restless. "Sometimes, Johnny can't sleep, I know. When he was with homicide, he wives used to complain because he'd walk the floor at all hours. Don't you have nightmares about SVU?" Granted, maybe a relationship with another cop was what her son needed, but she worried 'The Job' could break the very relationship it seemed to have made.

"We do have some pretty grisly dreams from time to time," she replied. "It's an occupational hazard. It's easier now, though, because we talk things through. We're no longer spending time alone, obsessed with what happened during our shift. Things are a lot better than they used to be, in that regard. We have each other to commiserate with." Sarah watched Ruth's expression change, as if she were satisfied – and relieved – by her answer.

"So you both work outside the office a lot? Johnny spent a lot of time on the streets when he was a homicide detective, as you could imagine." Ruth took another long sip of tea, her gaze never leaving Sarah's face.

"We do. There are crime scenes to examine, witnesses to talk with, all kinds of things. When two people handle it, it's a faster process most of the time," she explained.

"Isn't it dangerous, though, Sarah? I mean, there are people out there with guns – people who would rather kill a police than be caught." She sighed, remembering the nights she wondered if she'd get a call or if the BPD pastor would show up at her door in the early morning hours. "How do you keep each other safe? I know my son's been shot at, even though he'll never tell me the truth."

Oh, great, she thought, the slippery slope of lying to a woman who wants me to level with her. "We're extremely cautious," she replied. "If there's any threat of danger, we draw our guns and have them ready. John and I back each other up, both of us looking out for the other. We always work as safely as we can, Ruthie."

If I needed to, I'd gladly take a bullet for your son, she thought, knowing she could never utter those words in Mrs. Munch's hearing. Sarah took a long sip of tea, knowing there wasn't much more she could say about how she and John worked together. How do you explain a cop's instincts to a civilian? Zelman wondered.

"My son's been very lucky, thank God," Ruth said. "He's been a cop for a long time, never been injured in the line of duty and never been shot." She took a macaroon, breaking it into three pieces, as if playing with it. "Have you ever been shot, Sarah?"

"No, never," she replied, thinking she spit out the untruth far too rapidly. There. She had done it; she'd lied to her sweetheart's mother and felt like hanging her head in shame. Another of the Ten Commandments shot to hell, she thought ruefully. Keeping John's secrets was a hard thing to do, but she'd promised him she would.

"You must share the same kind of luck," she decided. "Andy's never been shot, either." A slight smile played across her features as she though of him. "Has Johnny told you about Andy? He works for the CIA. Those two boys practically grew up together, more like brothers than cousins." She looked toward the oven, as the timer continued softly ticking away the minutes.

"He's mentioned him, yes. The CIA – now those are the real spies. The Bureau can't hold a candle to them," she said, glad to get off the topic of gunshots.

"Maybe you'll get to meet Andy. He said he would be here for the holiday," she said hopefully.

"I'd like that… John's talked about Andy, and his uncle Andrew." She reached forward, took another macaroon and decided her vow to go easy on the sweets could go to hell.

"Andrew is a mensch," Ruthie said. "I wish he wasn't in Florida, but he hates the cold weather now that he's getting older." She heard the timer ding, went to the oven and pulled out the latest loaves of bread. "Your family is in California?"

"Originally from Chicago." Sarah got up to stretch her legs, glad the kitchen was larger than hers or John's. "I worked for the Feds in Florida, then Indy, afterward I lived in California for a few years and made trips back and forth across the country. Once I got tired of Los Angeles, I went to New York." It had been a grind, but one she relished with every captured perp.

"Why would you move from such warm, sunny weather?" Ruth knew she wouldn't give up Pikesville, no matter how long she lived. The thought of earthquakes terrified her, even more than potential blizzards or remnant storms from hurricanes ever could.

"Just needed something different, I guess… Things changed with my boyfriend," she admitted. "He became a U.S. Marshal and started to travel. We rarely saw each other after that. When we did, it was mostly to argue." She and John could argue a point into the ground, but it never became personal as it had between her and Stranahan.

"Jewish, this fellow?" Ruth Munch was fond of the direct approach; a little too enamored of it, if you asked her son.

"Not in the slightest. It…became an issue." For a brief moment, Sarah wondered if maybe the topic of getting shot was better. Discussing her previous boyfriend was not her idea of a good time. She sat down once more, to make sure she wasn't in Ruthie's way.

"I can imagine. You're much better off with my son, even though he's been so unlucky with the ladies in his past," she replied. "He has a good heart, my Johnny."

"Yes, he certainly does," Zelman agreed. "I'm very lucky to know him. If not for him, I wouldn't be here." She became quiet for a long moment, idly thinking of how God – or fate, as some preferred – intervened in her life. Before John made his way through the rubble of the North Tower, her life had been going nowhere and she had indeed been ready to give up on it.

Ruth saw the expression on her face, hesitated for a moment and then went to her, wrapping her arms around Sarah's shoulders. "He told me all about what happened," she almost whispered. "I'm sorry you've had so much loss in your life."

She nodded, unable to speak, afraid if she did there would be tears to follow.

Mrs. Munch lovingly straightened the collar of Sarah's suit coat, sure a change of subject was in order. "Such a beautiful pantsuit and shirt you're wearing. Gray and teal suit you." She went back to her chair and sat, still eager to continue her conversation with Sarah.

"Thank you," she replied. "It was on sale and I don't usually splurge, but this is a special occasion."

"Are you too warm in that jacket?" Ruth suddenly realized it was very warm in the kitchen, perhaps too warm for Zelman. "Would you like to take it off? I could hang it up for you, if you want."

Oh, god…my carry. I have my gun with me, she thought frantically. "Uh, no. It's okay… I'm fine, thanks." Truth be told, between the tea and the temperature inside, she wanted to find some snow and roll in it.

"Ohhhhh…" Ruth breathed, putting it all together. "You have a gun with you, don't you? Like Johnny's?"

"Actually, yes. Yes, I do. I hope that's not a – "

"Not in the slightest," Ruth was quick to assure her. "Johnny takes off his suit coat, Sarah. The sight of his holster is something I've grown accustomed to, believe me." She could count on the fingers of one hand the times she'd seen her son without a firearm.

Sarah nodded, feeling relief wash over her. "If you're sure, then yes… I'll probably take it off a little later." She saw a copy of The Baltimore Sun on the table, reached forward and took the sports section. She read as they spent a comfortable silence together, until Mrs. Munch almost seemed to fidget in her chair.

"Sarah, the two of you…serious? Maybe a chuppah in your future?" she asked. "You'd want to get married, wouldn't you, both of you?" The sixty-four thousand dollar question was now out and ready to be bandied about.

Zelman knew the question was suddenly the gorilla in the room and wasn't about to go away. She tread carefully, for the first time fervently wishing John were there to help ease her out of a possible situation. "I'm not sure it's right to get into that, without John here to – "

"What's to 'get into'?" Ruthie asked, in her gently persistent manner. "Neither of you are getting any younger, and it's good to have someone you can grow older with, you know." The woman had a penchant for asking tough questions, so much in fact, it was amazing her son hadn't put her in for a detective's position in the BPD. She could have given any of Giardello's best a run for the money.

"That's very true, Ruthie. You're right," she admitted, "we're not getting younger, but we do want to get married."

"Nu?" she asked, using the Yiddish word for 'so?'

"So… Well, uh…we're waiting," she replied, feeling her face getting hot. "He's asked, but I need a little more time." It was true. He'd dramatically taken her hand, carefully lowered himself to one knee and asked her to consider throwing her lot in life with his, in good times and bad.

Ruth Munch was aghast, her mouth opening. "Johnny asked you? He didn't tell me that! When?" The thought of her son becoming serious about a woman, serious enough to consider marriage once more, was a shock.

Zelman wondered if she'd started what would become a family incident, but it was too late to shrug it off now. "A month ago. I thought he was kidding, but he wasn't," she replied. "I'm not ready to get married again, Ruthie. The timing's not right."

"Again?" She seized upon the word. "You're divorced, too?"

"Once, yes. My ex-husband wasn't Jewish. It was more of a challenge than I expected." She looked longingly at the plate of macaroons, with the scent of fresh baked bread wafting throughout the house she felt like she'd been imprisoned in a bakery. With an inward shrug, she took another cookie.

The timer went off with a single ding, the sound rousing Ruthie from her chair. She grabbed potholders and opened the oven door, pulling out a perfect loaf of molasses bread. "You need a nice Jewish boy and now you have one. Don't waste your life waiting, Sarah."

"We won't… I promise. It's tough, being married to a cop," she replied, with more thought than she usually gave the issue. "It's even harder when cops marry each other." Harder still, when they have to stay below IAB's radar, she thought bitterly.

Mrs. Munch leaned against the counter in a gesture reminiscent of John. "You're not planning to break my Johnny's heart, are you?" She fixed Zelman with a look others would have considered a stare, but Sarah recognized as a mother's deepest concern.

"No, never in a million years," she vowed. "Ruthie, I love your son so much, there's no way I'd ever want to hurt him."

"Then why hesitate?" she asked, not understanding why Sarah wouldn't marry John. He loved her. He'd proposed. What was the problem?

Zelman pulled in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she grappled with her choice of words. "It would cost me my job, Ruthie. The NYPD won't let married cops work in the same department," she said. "Our captain did a lot of string-pulling to hire me, and I know John doesn't want to leave Special Victims, which means we'll wait."

She nodded, sympathetic now that she understood their predicament. "Even so, he should ask again and you should say yes. At least a promise for the future – "

"Mom, please!" They'd been so deeply into their conversation, they hadn't heard John come in, a large brown paper bag in one hand. He reached over to Sarah's plate, grabbed a piece of macaroon and popped it into his mouth. "With my track record, maybe questions about marriage are a little premature," he quipped.

"John, it's okay…no worries," Sarah said. "I think your mom knows, whatever she'd like to ask, I'm happy to answer." She smiled, her wink reassuring him once Ruthie's back was turned.

He laughed as he pulled out the containers of crabmeat and sat them on the counter. "Mom, when I said earlier you could ask Sarah questions, I didn't give you permission to nail her to the wall." He shook his head, the smile still on his face.

"Who's nailing?" Ruthie replied innocently. "I'm simply asking!"

O0O

Knowing his mother had mercilessly peppered his girlfriend with questions about their relationship and possible marriage, he decided it was time to extract a bit of revenge avec torque.

"It's time Sarah and I moved in, I think," John said, causing both his mother and Zelman to give him a look. "What? Did I say something wrong?" He had a wicked gleam in his dark eyes, as he struggled to keep a straight face. He loved tweaking his mother, because she – like Sarah – took things almost too literally at times.

"You mean you're moving in together?" Ruth asked, unsure of exactly what he meant. "Johnny, you know my feelings about couples living together before marriage." She shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. Some of Mrs. Munch's viewed had not changed over the years, premarital cohabitation being one of her hot-button issues.

"John, this isn't the time for – " Sarah wasn't sure if he was pulling his mother's leg about them both moving into her apartment in Washington Heights, or if he meant they needed to relocate their luggage.

"As in, where we're staying while we're here," he interrupted, feigning innocence. "What did you think I was talking about?" His offbeat sense of humor had taken both women by surprise. "You thought I'd leave my rent-controlled apartment? Why on earth would I do such a thing?"

"Oh, never mind," Sarah said, smiling as she got the joke. "Just for that, you get to schlep the luggage by yourself, wise-ass."

"He gets me all stirred up about something, every time he's here," Ruth said, trying not to laugh. "His sense of humor is all his father's. I take no responsibility for his foolishness, especially when he gets together with that younger brother of his." She gave him a tight frown; it would have to do, since he was too old to spank. "Go to your room, Johnny – the one you usually have while you're here." She shared a knowing look with Sarah, as Zelman followed him from the room.

Once they were out of earshot, she gave him a gentle elbow to his side. "Nice one, trying to rattle your mother's cage about us possibly moving in together. You're going to make her think I'm a slut," she whispered hotly.

"Relax… I used to tease her like this all the time," he assured her. "If I didn't shock her at least once or twice, she'd think I was sick."

"You're 'sick' all right," she countered, relenting and picking up both of their fold-over bags.

"Thank you." He arched his brows, took up a pilot's bag in each hand, then nodded toward the back of the house. "C'mon, let's move in together."

She laughed, despite trying her best not to encourage him. "I forgot to ask… Where are we staying?"

"We're in Mom's room. She'll take my old room," he explained. "That's usually how it works out when I visit."

She cringed inwardly, thinking it wasn't such a good idea. "Oh, great – we're throwing your Mom out of her bed."

"She swaps with me every time, because she has a double bed; I'm taller, I need more room," he insisted. "We'll have the master bedroom and bath, she'll take my room and the second bathroom." He had to remind himself Sarah hadn't been with him in the house before, despite how comfortable it felt.

"Who takes Bernie's old room?" she wondered aloud.

"It's her sewing room. She also keeps her laptop in there, now that she's been shown how to retrieve her e-mail by her technologically expert son," he said, leading the way into his Mom's bedroom.

She decided to let that one slide, since it was well-known around the bullpen he'd required a lot of coaching when he got his first programmable cell-phone. "'More room' or not, it's not good to evict her from her bed, John. I mean, it's not fair for us to – "

"Sarah, my old room has a twin bed." He put the bags near the dresser, sure Ruth had emptied out at least a couple of drawers for their use. He then took the bags from her, placing them near the closet. "We could try to make it work, if you wanted…" He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her as she giggled. "There's a very limited sleeping configuration at play, however. Would you prefer the bottom or the top?"

"You're so bad, John…really, you are." She looked around the room for a moment, her gaze longingly on the bed and its down comforter. "I hate to tell you this," she said softly, "but you and I are not going to see any action in that bed."

"Did my mother give you the 'no-schtupping zone' talk, too?" He sat down on the bed, a long sigh leaving him. "Damn it! Every time!"

"What are you talking about? All I'm saying is, there's no way I'd feel like we could…you know…in your Mom's bed." All her years as a detective working sex crimes, but suddenly she couldn't say 'make love' in conjunction with Mrs. Munch's personal accommodations.

"She gave me a lecture, while you were outside. She declared her bed off-limits for any kind of amorous exercises," he said forlornly, "throughout the duration of our stay." He pulled her down to sit beside him. "Did she mention that to you, too?"

"No, not at all, but I can see her point and we should respect her wishes." She kissed him, wondering if perhaps it would have been better to get a hotel room. She easily dismissed the thought, secretly hating the smell of 'hotel whiff,' always contemplating the level of cleanliness she'd find. "We'll honor her request, John. It's only for a few days."

"Easier said than done," he quipped, less than pleased at the thought.

O0O

A few hours after dinner, they cuddled on the living room sofa together once Ruthie went to bed. John wrestled the remote from Sarah with only minimal resistance. He missed the way they'd share a pint of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia and a spoon, each one by turns feeding the other or secretly trying to ferret out most of the cherries.

At least they had The History Channel, he reminded himself. It was an in-depth study of Sirhan Bishara Sirhan, an anti-Israel militant who had assassinated Senator Robert F. Kennedy. They'd both seen it before, footage from the incident almost too painful to watch once more.

John lay back on the sofa as Sarah patted her lap. It was habit with them; he'd drape his long legs over her lap and she'd rub them while he drifted into an almost Zen-like state. This night, his usual half-hour or so of meditative relaxation didn't happen. "I stopped by to chat with Bernie, before I went to Reichel's," he volunteered.

"I'm glad. I was hoping you would, to give me time to talk with your mom," she replied. "How's he doing? How are Marianne and Ben?" She was glad when he clicked the remote to almost mute the television.

"Everyone's fine, looking forward to seeing us and meeting you on Thursday." He pulled his glasses down long enough to rub his tired eyes. "Babe, promise me you won't have a stroke?"

Oh, no. No wonder his muscles were so tense, she thought. "Why, John? What did you agree to without talking with me first?" She tried to keep her tone light, but beneath lurked a sting of trepidation.

Munch looked almost miserable as he pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes for a moment. "Bernie invited us to shul Friday night. He backed me against the wall and I told him we'd go, since there was no way I could keep us from it without causing hurt feelings."

She took in slow, measured breaths, hoping he couldn't feel her hands trembling as she massaged him. "For the love of god, how did you let him corner you? He must have stayed up all night, thinking of a way to pull one over."

"You're probably not too far off the mark, sweetie," he admitted, a bit chagrined. "He asked me a lot of questions about how well we mesh – how much we have in common with music, current affairs, politics… Then he asked about religion. In painstaking detail, much like Mom must have questioned you about us. When I explained you're Conservative but not obsessively observant, which works well with my being Reform, Bernie decided we should all attend shul together." He sighed, irritated at himself he hadn't seen it coming. "I said we would."

"Of course, you know this means I have to kill your brother," she said, keeping her tone even. "I hope he's well-insured," she quipped.

"Wait in line. I'm already making plans to get him first," John commiserated.

"You know I haven't been to temple since 1985. I'm a fish out of water in a synagogue, sweetheart."

"I told him that, before he got this wild idea of family bonding in his head. I haven't been since almost that long, but it'll all come back to you. It will." He admired the fact she wasn't whining, yet he shared her hesitation. In his case, it meant being back among his old acquaintances, as well as friends of his mother.

"John, please tell me he didn't do this intentionally, to see if I'd crack under pressure. Bernie wouldn't be so sweetly sadistic as to think, 'Hey, how could I add more stress to John's girlfriend's weekend? I know! She can join us at services!' Or would he?"

"He would," Munch admitted. "But I don't think it's his intention this time. He has no choice but go to services, babe, because he's well thought of in the Jewish community and knows the burial customs better than most rabbis." John reached out to take Sarah's hand in his. "In his perverse way, I firmly believe he thinks this is a great way for us all to be together in a more meaningful way. He probably doesn't realize going to shul strikes nothing but terror in both our hearts," he asserted.

"I was under the distinct impression your entire family was about as religious as you are," she countered. "As when you said, 'The only thing Judaism and I have in common are, we both hate to work Saturdays.'" In her family, she was the only one who retained ties to Judaism anymore; her mother converted to Christianity after her father's murder, shocking everyone. Her brother had followed suit, for the sake of his subsequent wives; her sister was decidedly noncommittal and her brother-in-law comfortably Wiccan.

"It's become more important to Mom as she's grown older," he explained. "Which has been nice for Bernie, since Marianne is fairly observant and they're raising their son to be mindful as well."

He shrugged, pushing his glasses back into place. "Which leaves me as the family black sheep yet again. Personally, sweetie, I think Bernie's intentions are more honorable than suspect."

"Maybe I won't kill him after all," she decided, a wry smile on her face. "But here's the thing: I'm supposed to walk into a congregation – a progressive Reform shul, no less – with your family and give the appearance I'm comfortable? Look, I realize he blindsided you with this, I'll even concede his intentions are good, but sweetheart…" She ran her hand through her hair and muttered under her breath, "Ohhhhhh…yentz!" She momentarily wondered if Ruthie had any hard liquor in the house, because she felt a sudden, overwhelming urge for a shot of something strong.

John winced at her Yiddish equivalent of "Fuck!" aware he'd pushed his luck too far. While he knew he could have gently refused Bernie's invitation, it wouldn't have been polite, nor would it have boded well. "Please don't be angry with me, sweetie." He swung his legs off of her and sat up, scooting closer to her to kiss her. "If you promise not to be mad at me, I'll let you have the remote. Deal?"

"I'm okay with it all, I guess. I'm not really angry with you, it's just that…damn. We could be courting disaster." They gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, before Sarah looked down. "John, my problem is, I don't want to be the one who makes the Munch family look bad."

"You won't be," he assured her. "That's my job."

…to be continued…


	5. Chapter 5

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Five

Sarah unpacked, aware it would be impolite to live out of her luggage as was her custom. Momentarily too warm in the room, she pulled off her jacket and gasped as she remembered her carry. "Damn! Houston, we have a problem. A very serious problem."

"What's wrong?" John asked, pausing from organizing his own clothing. He watched as she pulled her pistol from the holster and stared at it for a moment. "You're worried about your weapon?"

"To say the least. I have no idea where to put this, where I'll feel it's safe," she replied. "Granted, I'll have it with me each day, but nights are another thing entirely. Putting it unsecured in a drawer is going to drive me crazy." She shook her head, wondering what to do, as John delved deeper into his bag. Sarah was rarely without her gun at her side, even in the bullpen. Like John, she'd never consider putting it in a drawer, as some of his colleagues in the Baltimore P.D. or her colleagues with the Bureau were known to do.

"What you're saying is, it's a good thing I brought this." He pulled out a lockbox with a sequence mechanism, just large enough for two Glocks to nestle in if they were carefully placed. "I knew we'd need a safe, in case you didn't want your pistol with you at dinner on Thursday. With kids around, we can't be too careful." John took her work carry and his, pulled out the clips, checked the chambers, then arranged both in the lock box. He clicked it closed; she knew the code in case she needed to open it in the morning. "Feel better now?"

"Much, thanks," she replied. As he settled the safe on the top shelf of the closet, she went to him. "You think of everything."

"I know how you worry, which is why I thought of it." He smiled as she wrapped her arms around him, her head against his chest. He rocked her gently from side to side, feeling her tremble. "Sarah," he whispered, "tell me what's wrong."

"Having guns in this house doesn't seem right somehow," she admitted. "For a moment, when you opened the closet door, I thought maybe I'd see a gun safe." She didn't want to explain it further, but she hoped he knew what she meant.

"My dad's lockbox for his old Smith & Wesson revolver? Is that what you didn't want to see?" John asked, tightening his hold on her.

"Yes. I…I'm sorry."

"No, don't be," he assured her. "After it was cleared through evidence, we were given the option to have both his .38 and the lockbox destroyed. Which we did." He tipped her head to face him, stroked her cheek, felt her start to relax at last. "Nothing's up there but my lockbox and a bunch of Mom's file boxes. No bad memories, no ordnance but ours, nothing that can hurt anyone now."

He mentally kicked himself for forgetting an odd quirk of hers. Seeing a dead body didn't bother her in the slightest, even in an advanced state of decomp or bloodied in the worst of ways. But strangely, if she walked into a place where a murder or suicide had taken place years ago, it put her on edge immediately. She couldn't explain why she'd start to shake, feel her stomach roil and have her chest tighten enough to squeeze the breath from her lungs, but it had happened several times while she was with the Bureau and once while with him. She worked diligently to conceal it, almost no one knew, but he had discovered her secret.

She wouldn't elaborate on her reaction to such events, but he knew there was more to it than something merely physical. He'd seen it in her eyes and once was enough. It was because of this, he made a mental note to keep her out of the garage at all costs. He could still go in there, because the past was merely that to him – something he had come to terms with and moved on from, but it wouldn't be quite so easy for her somehow. While they were there, he would protect her from that past, from what his father had done.

They continued to put their clothes and toiletries in order, each flitting past the other in an efficient choreography between the bedroom and bath; a small flurry of coat hangers, plastic bags with shampoo and soap, finding a place to plug in an electric razor, joining other necessities placed where they'd normally be in either one's apartment.

Only after they'd settled in, John changing into his black scrubs and Sarah in a flannel sleep shirt, did they quietly discuss their day.

"Your mom could have an illustrious career with the Feds, John," she chided softly. "The FBI should hire Jewish moms to do all their background checks. This country would be a much safer place." She smiled, almost laughing at how adroitly Ruthie had pulled a plethora of information from her in such a relatively short time.

He chuckled, as he sat on the edge of the bed, taking the edge off his nails with an emery board. "Sarah, I'm sorry, babe. It's my fault," he admitted. "I gave her blanket permission to ask you whatever she was curious about."

"No need to apologize, John. If I were your mom, I'd be asking questions, too. She's protective. That's good," Sarah decided, considering how his other relationships had gone down in flames. She felt for certain Ruth had the right idea in asking as many questions as possible, even if some felt like prods with red-hot pokers.

"I have to admit, she's over-protective like a Rottweiler guarding a freshly grilled sirloin," he quipped, rubbing lotion on to his hands.

"Hey, she loves you. That alone gives me enough reason to love her, too," Sarah said, brushing her hair. She paused for a moment, looking at his reflection in the mirror. "I'm not sure I'm passing the tests, though. Maybe I should have studied for this," she added, with a dismissive laugh.

"As long as she's asking questions and you're answering, she's thrilled," he replied. "None of my exes tolerated the grilling – they'd usually get angry and force me to make her stop. Except for Gwen, who wasn't fond of it but eventually answered most of Mom's questions." He bitterly recalled those days after Gwen, who had been the only one of his wives to become friends with his mother.

Gwen wasn't the most domestic of women, but she and John shared something very special for a few short years. Something he carried in his heart to this day; a fact Sarah had grown accustomed to and would never consider asking him to set aside. Zelman knew she wasn't his first love, nor possibly his deepest, but she was happy to be by his side for as long as he wanted her.

"If I'm going to make it into the tribe, there has to be an initiation," she said brightly. "I'm tough, I can take it." She looked at the bed, wondering if John wanted the left side, as was his usual spot be it at his place or hers.

"You did rather well," he admitted.

"What did she say?"

He went to the bed and pulled back the comforter and top sheet on 'his' side, then slipped under the covers as she got in on the other side. "It wasn't what she said, it's that she kept asking. The deeper or more plentiful the questions, the more she's interested," he explained. "She wasn't particularly compelled to ask much of Billie Lou. I think the only reason she feigned interest in Gwen was because she was my first wife. By the way," he added, a wicked grin on his face, "Mom hated Felicia."

"You and Felicia… I'm almost surprised you didn't marry her," she replied. "Those fights must have been epic." She snuggled deeply into the bed, amazed at how comfortable it felt.

"They were," he admitted. "At least we don't fight…" He idly wondered if he could get away with opening the window half an inch, as he had when he was a boy. The cold air made for even better 'sleeping weather' there than it did in New York.

"We argue, but we always make up. There's the difference." Sarah watched as John gave in, unlocked the window and lifted it every so slightly.

"Nothing beats making-up sex," he replied, getting back into bed and cuddling close. "We could always pretend we – "

"Hey! You told me this is a non-schtupping zone. Remember, we're in your mom's bed!" she hissed, almost eliciting a yelp as his cold hands touched hers.

"Damn, I forgot," he fibbed. "Sorry."

She laughed, pushing her cold feet against him in retaliation. "Oh, I'll bet you forgot. I'm sure you're sorry." She felt a twinge of regret, since he wasn't going to be the only one going without their favorite recreation.

He laughed, too, albeit wryly. "I am… I'm sorrier than ever, because I won't be getting laid for an eternity." He kissed the back of her neck, nuzzled the sleep shirt away from her right shoulder to kiss her there as well.

She knew he was weakening, trying to lure her into breaking a promise with him. "Go to sleep, John," she said gently. "You can go a few nights without; happens every month and it hasn't resulted in permanent damage yet." She sighed happily as he turned his attention to her left shoulder.

"This is different," he murmured, still intent on wearing her down.

"In what way?"

"Not being allowed makes me want you that much more."

"You won't break my resolve," she vowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I bet your mom can hear everything in this house."

"She sleeps like a baby. We have nothing to worry about, sweetie." He wrapped his arms around her, before one hand started to move farther down.

She took his roaming hand in hers, locking it at her waist as he sighed. "Babies wake up, John. One squeak and we're in trouble," she warned. Softly, she added, "Get some sleep, sweetheart."

"Fine." He waited exactly sixty seconds. "Please?"

"No. I can live without, so can you," she admonished.

"You have more resolve than I do," he reminded her. "Just a quickie? For me? It's torture – inhumane punishment like this, I don't deserve under any circumstances." He wanted more than merely release; he wanted the thrill of taking her in a different place, to defy the standards imposed by his mother, to be able to break into the new box of Trojans he'd brought with the intention of pleasuring them both.

"John! Not here, we promised. Your anatomy can handle the lack of release for a few short nights," she replied. "Look, I want you every bit as much, but we can't do it here. If you absolutely can't handle it, take a shower. Soap can be your slut." She cringed, giving him permission to make love alone wasn't her style, but she knew when he wanted sex he was extremely persistent.

"Let's both take a shower," he insisted. "The steam, the hot water, both of us entwined likes snakes on a caduceus." John knew it was true, she did want him then in the same way, every bit as badly. It was simply a case of weakening all of her defenses, then making her feel comfortable breaking the rules.

It wasn't working as well as he'd hoped. "I think the non-schtupping restriction still applies there, too. I've already lied to your mother once, I'm not going to desecrate her bed – or her shower."

"Come on, sweetie… When was the last time we made love?"

"Last night, you amnesiac. It's not like you really don't remember," she said, trying not to laugh.

If love wasn't enough of a reason, perhaps science would be, he thought. "Being this close to you…you know, it…"

"Maybe I should sleep on the floor," she wondered aloud.

"That's not what I'm saying. Sarah, she won't know," he insisted. "There's no way she's going to know." The squeaking bed didn't matter to John, so intent he was on his objective.

"Yes, she will. I'd never be able to look her in the eye again," she confessed. "For the last time tonight, go to sleep, sweetheart."

"Right," he groused. "'Night." He snuggled against her, buried his face in her hair and inhaled the scent of her shampoo. Involuntarily, he began to stir, silently cursing what he felt was a stupid, punishing rule his mother had no right to impose on a man his age.

"John!" Sarah whispered, exasperated as she felt him against her.

"See what I mean? It can't be helped, babe. It's biological," he pleaded, feigning innocence.

"Yes, it can," she replied. "Close your eyes and think of advanced trigonometry or mentally balance your checkbook." His physical response wasn't making it any easier on her, either.

"I always ask you to balance my checkbook." It was true, but not something she wanted to hear just then.

"John…"

"Yeah fine sure," he relented. "Non-schtupping zone," he mumbled, finally forcing himself to think of college basketball statistics as he slowly fell asleep, Sarah in his arms.

O0O

Six hours later, Sarah half-awoke in total darkness, sharply aware nothing felt familiar to her. The room was too warm, the air too still as she tried to pull in a deep breath. She struggled against a comforter that wasn't hers, in an effort to push it off and sit up.

"Sweetie?" When John felt her move, he snapped awake, reaching for her. "What's wrong?" He touched her and she flinched; it was at that point he knew their unfamiliar surroundings had her on edge.

"I need up," she said, breathing hard. "This isn't right."

He pulled back the covers, got up and moved to her side of the bed. "Everything's okay," he said softly. "We're in Pikesville, at my mom's. Remember?" He wrapped his arms around her, drew her close and kissed her. "Were you dreaming?" She warmed beneath his embrace, as he wondered if she was finally aware of her surroundings.

"No, I wasn't dreaming," she said slowly. "I started to wake up and didn't know where I was for a minute or two, that's all." She wrapped her arms around him, breathing easier, the darkness familiar at last. "I didn't mean to wake you up…sorry."

"It's okay," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "Lie down and we'll to go back to sleep." He stood as she slipped under the comforter once more, turning toward his side of the bed. He got into bed beside her, pulled her close and held her until she slept once more.

As sleep edged in on his thoughts, he realized her reaction was from staying in too many strange places throughout her career with the Bureau. Too many places with no one to wake up with, to calm her when she startled. He draped an arm over her, groggy with encroaching slumber, vowing to never let her wake up alone again if he could help it.

An hour later, sunrise crept at the edges of the drapes, as John gently awoke. He kissed Sarah's forehead as she lay sleeping, a slight smile at the corners of her mouth. Unable to resist, he kissed her lips and she groggily opened her eyes. "Good morning," he said softly. "Ready to face another exciting day?"

She smiled, still blinking heavily. "Good mornin'… I'm not sure," she admitted. "This bed is so comfy, I could sleep for another half-hour at least."

"Go ahead. I'll wake you a little later," he said, "after I've showered and dressed." He watched as she closed her eyes once more, almost immediately falling back to sleep. He smiled, reluctantly leaving the bed to take a hot shower. He knew his mom was awake; the air was filled with the scent of coffee and warmed walnut sweet bread.

As he clicked on the heat lamp in the bathroom and turned on the shower, he realized once more how good it felt to be home.

O0O

Freshly showered, dressed in a black sweatshirt and black jeans, he gently stroked Sarah's hair until she awoke. "Thanks for letting me sleep," she said, as she pulled him down into a luxurious kiss. "My turn for the shower?"

"Yes. I left the heat lamp on for you."

"Thank you, sweetheart." She rewarded his thoughtfulness with another kiss, then slipped out of bed and padded off toward the bathroom. "I'll be out in a little while," she called over her shoulder, before closing the door behind her.

As he looked at the closed door, he missed their usual morning routine for a moment. While she showered and dressed, he took the opportunity to head for the kitchen, ready for breakfast and his morning caffeine.

O0O

John walked into the kitchen, saw his mother at the table, her head down in concentration as he poured himself a cup of coffee and topped off hers. She looked up, smiled, then went back to her list. "Good morning, Johnny," she said, a bit other-directed. "Did you and Sarah sleep well?"

"We did, thanks," he replied, taking down a small plate and filling it with slices of walnut bread. "She wanted an extra half-hour, since she was still a little sleepy." He reached into the fridge, took out the margarine and brought it to the table with him.

"Is she okay?" Ruth looked up from what she was writing, a concerned expression on her face. "Did you have the window open last night? You didn't give her a cold did you?" Anyone who saw the look on Mrs. Munch's face would understand exactly where John inherited his 'over the lenses' look.

"She's fine," he replied. "I only opened the window half an inch." He started to spread margarine on his bread when his mother's gaze made him stop. "What? C'mon, Mom…"

"Am I paying to heat the great outdoors? Did you remember to close the window when you got up?" She took a long sip of coffee, aware some things never changed with her kids. John always opened the window a crack, Bernie always froze, but somehow the heat bill always got paid.

"No and yes," he answered gently. "What are you working on?" He knew distraction almost always worked with his mom, especially when she was on the topic of heating bills. He took a sip of coffee, contemplated reading the paper, but decided it was better to wait for Sarah.

"I'm preparing your job for this morning," Ruth answered. "I need you and Sarah to go to the market for me. It's only four pages this time, which shouldn't take too much from your day." She sipped coffee as she double-checked her list to a couple of recipes. "Take my car. You'll need the hatch-back for everything to fit."

"We can get it in the Saturn, Mom," he assured her. He secretly hated her Pontiac with its bucket seats practically sitting on the ground, the front seat unable to push back enough to comfortably accommodate his legs. He knew Sarah wouldn't be all that fond of it, either. "When do you need us to go?"

"Trader Joe's opens in a couple of hours, so you'll probably want to go there first, when they unlock the doors," she decided. "The T.J. list is separate and has the non-perishables. Then you can stop by Superfresh on the way home and do the rest of it. You remember how to get to those two?" she asked, well aware she'd sent him by himself last year.

"I'm sure I can manage," he said, smiling. She was already starting to get a little wound-up about her day of cooking, he could tell. "Sarah knows her way around a grocery store; she can keep me on-track if I stray." He watched as Zelman walked into the kitchen, her hair still damp-dry. "Speak of the devil," he commented dryly. "There's coffee if you want it."

"Sounds good." She reached down, picked up his mug and took a sip, a habit they shared at home but never in the bullpen. "Good morning, Ruthie. Did I hear correctly, you need us to do grocery shopping?" Sarah poured herself a cup of coffee, added a splash of milk and settled at the table.

"I hope you don't mind, dear," she said carefully, "it's practically tradition for Johnny to go to the store for me."

"We don't mind at all." She perused the long list Ruthie pushed toward her, nodding in concentration as she quickly read all four pages. "This is no problem."

"But this is," John countered, having found the early edition of the Baltimore Sun, his gaze on a story on page D-12. "Listen to this…"

"Is this where he honed his delivery of 'weird news'?" Sarah asked, as Ruthie looked skyward and groaned theatrically.

Before she could answer or either could object, John began reading aloud. "Residents of small fishing villages in northern Newfoundland have for centuries been "mumming" at Christmastime, in rituals described in an October academic journal article by University of Missouri-Columbia researchers.

"People disguise themselves, go to neighbors' houses and threaten violence, at which point the neighbor must guess the visitor's identity, and, if all goes well, refuse to be scared. Supposedly, the ritual induces trust by both parties, as the visitors show their good hearts by failing to actually beat anyone up, and the host shows trust by his courage and passivity.

"Mumming, the researchers conclude, continues today only on a 'small scale.'" He looked to make sure his audience was still with him, then added, "As opposed to mugging, which is highly prevalent in today's society and not even half as much fun."

"You'd think we were at the precinct," Sarah said, laughing.

"The day never begins until the reading of weird news has concluded," Ruthie said, laughing softly. "What would you two like for breakfast this morning?" She suddenly wondered if Zelman ate breakfast and if she did, was it something she had on hand. "I have some lox trimmings to scramble with eggs, there's walnut bread, instant oatmeal…"

"I vote for eggs with lox," John said, "if it's not too much trouble."

"Or, I could fix them, Ruthie," Sarah volunteered. "You're going to be cooking all day."

"The two of you are going to do the hard part – the shopping. I'm happy to fix breakfast, but I have to make a quick call to Marianne before she gets too far into her day." She excused herself, leaving John and Sarah in momentary silence.

After a few moments, he heard the hall closet door open, low clatter drawing his attention. He recognized the sound as his mother getting out her cleaning caddy, a collection of polishes and sprays in a plastic carrier. "I'll be back in a minute or two," he said, excusing himself.

"What's wrong?" Sarah asked, perplexed.

He kept his voice low, just above a whisper. "Mom's not on the phone with Marianne, she's heading into our room to clean it." Before Sarah could ask why, John held his index finger to his lips as he got up. "My mother, the neatnik. I'll explain it all later," he promised, as he went down the hall to intercept his mom.

O0O

He walked into his mother's room at a clip, surprised to see her standing there momentarily transfixed. "Mom?" he asked, as she startled.

"Johnny!" she said, breathless as she turned toward him. "You shouldn't creep up on me like that – you scared me half to death!"

"I'm sorry," he apologized, pulling her into a hug. "Why are you in here with your cleaning supplies?" It wasn't as if he really didn't know, but he wanted to give her a chance to come up with a creative excuse. "You said you had to give Marianne a call, not that you needed to come in here with Scrubbing Bubbles and Playtex gloves." He let go of her as she took a step back, the distinctive look on her face which loudly proclaimed, 'busted.' Becoming a police had been a logical choice for him, not as much because his father had been a member of the thin blue line, but because as a youth he used his astute observations to derail his parents' gentle deceptions.

Ruth Munch had never fully understood she couldn't pull one over on him, no matter how delicately she tried. "I thought, you know," she began, trying to choose the most diplomatic terms, "maybe it would be nice to make the bed, clean the bathroom a bit, pick up anything on the floor." She looked around, almost shocked to see everything in its place, as if no one had set foot in the room last night.

"Sarah's a little neurotic about cleanliness and order, Mom," he chastised softly. "After she showered and dressed, she made the bed, put things away and then headed for the kitchen."

Ruth nodded, going into the bathroom to find it just as clean as it was the day before. "Johnny, your wives and girlfriends weren't usually so tidy. Gwen did her best to keep a good home, but when everyone else would visit, I felt like the housemaid. Especially when Maria was here – she expected to be waited on hand and foot. You'd have thought this place was the Waldorf Astoria." She sat down on the bed, patted the comforter in an effort to get John to sit with her. "Artists. Pfeh!"

He sat down beside her, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know, I see your point. Sarah's too perfect for me," he said somberly. "All her neatness, the way she's willing to be part of our family, her eagerness to help out with things," he felt the flicker of a grin forming at the corners of his mouth, as he fought hard not to laugh.

"Johnny, wait! I never meant to say she – "

"No, mom, you've genuinely made me realize she's not the one for me after all." He lowered his head, stretching the moment for as long as he could. "I'll take her to the train station after we're done with the grocery shopping. She'll understand. We simply can't take it anymore, all this orderliness and obsessive compulsiveness. You're right – I should find myself another slob and settle down."

"Now just you wait one minute!" But it was too late. She saw his shoulders shake for a brief instant, his hand going to his face to hide a wide smile. This time, the cop himself was busted. "Wise ass!" Ruth almost shouted, finally getting the joke. "You're still my son, you're in my house, so stop with all the stupid. Train station, my tuchis!" She elbowed him hard as he almost doubled over in laughter. "I knew you were kidding," she insisted dryly.

"Sure you did," he retorted, trying to quell his laughter. "Could I maybe pay you not to bring up my ex-wives and ex-girlfriends all the time? Please?"

She shook her head firmly, serious once more. "You know comparisons are inevitable, Johnny. We've been through this plenty of times before."

He tilted his head, looked at her over his lenses and took her hand in his. "Sarah and I, we were both raised right, Mom. All joking aside, I'm glad you noticed. I don't mean to tease you so much, but you should hear yourself… It's amusing, to say the least." He gave her hand a squeeze, glad he'd caught her before she had time to put on the yellow rubber gloves that extended almost to her elbows. If he had things his way, his mother would never again lift a finger to do housework. Realistically, he knew she'd always keep her own house, summarily rejecting even the thought of someone else cleaning her home.

She drilled him with her gaze, her look no less intimidating than a polygraph test. "Johnny, is this how Sarah always is, or is it simply good behavior for my benefit? You have to tell me the truth. Please tell me she keeps a good home," she urged. "It's important to me you'll be happy."

"What you're seeing is the real Sarah Zelman, Mom," he replied softly. "I feel as much at home in her place as she does in mine. It's no front, nor a façade for anyone's benefit."

"I hated it how you cleaned all the time and how those other women of yours made you into some kind of Hebrew brasero, especially Billie Lou. She was a slovenly, lazy, gold-digger and saying her name makes me want to spit," she said, blowing out her frustration as a long breath. Ruth knew who really kept The Waterfront clean enough for the health inspectors, and damned if anyone would turn her son into unwilling domestic help ever again. "At least Gwen tried to keep the place picked up, so I didn't worry quite as much."

"Sarah and I divide all the chores at her place and mine, which keeps both our places reasonably spotless. She's not shy about doing housework, by any means," he added. "You should ask her to help you give the house a touch-up tomorrow morning. She'd be flattered. She's very comfortable here, Mom." He knew volunteering Zelman for vacuuming or last-minute dusting wouldn't be a problem, since she'd been hoping Ruth would ask.

The idea seemed to appeal to her as well. "Johnny, I'm glad to hear it. She needs to feel like this is her home, too."

"I think she's getting there, don't worry." He leaned over, placing a gentle peck on his mother's cheek.

"For now, this is your home – and hers." She stood as he followed suit. "Well, I would hope the two of you are ready for breakfast," she said brightly. "Time to make the lox and eggs I promised you both."

""You do that and I can assure you Sarah will love you forever."

O0O

After breakfast, John nodded in the direction of his mom's room and Sarah followed him. He reached into the closet and took down the gun safe, opening it carefully. "I thought you'd want your carry." He proffered the opened box as she took out her Glock and snapped in the clip.

"Is it usually necessary to pack heat while grocery shopping?" she asked, well aware they almost always had their ordnance with them no matter the situation. Neither of them felt fully dressed -- or protected – without a firearm.

"You never know," he quipped, half-serious, "this is the Baltimore area, after all." He pulled on his shoulder holster, concealed his gun, then held her holster as she slipped into it. "Even in the surrounding cities, things aren't as safe as they should be." He reached into the closet once more, pulling out his charcoal gray suit coat. No sense in advertising they were armed, he thought.

She shrugged into a slate gray suede blazer, glad it wasn't too snug over her lightweight blue sweater. For a moment, she wondered if jeans and boots were the right choice. "What else is on the docket for today?" His answer would determine whether or not she changed into something less casual.

"Getting out of the house after we drop off the groceries." He knew the drill. Shop, help his mother put everything away, then leave the cooking to her and her friends. Staying out of the way was the best thing they could do, since the flurry of activity would get increasingly intense as the day progressed.

"Ruthie doesn't need help?"

"She does, but not ours. Several of her friends are coming over to lend a hand; we'll be meeting them tomorrow, since they'll also be dinner guests," he explained. "I've learned to leave Mom to her own devices when it comes to pre-holiday prep."

"You still haven't answered my first question," Sarah reminded him, smoothing his lapels.

"We have plans." His kept his tone intentionally mysterious, pleased at her puzzled expression. "For now, we might have enough time to get to T.J.'s before they open their doors to the hungry throngs." Without another word, he headed for the front door, Sarah mutely walking after him as she contemplated the sudden intrigue.

O0O

Less than thirty minutes later, John was circling Trader Joe's parking lot for the fourth time, convinced they'd never find a spot in the rumba line of cars. Suddenly, his luck changed for the better, an opening five spaces in front of them. He signaled, relieved no one wanted to fight him for it as he parked. "I was beginning to wonder if we'd have to park in a different zip code and walk back here."

"They only opened fifteen minutes ago," Sarah replied. "You'd think it wouldn't be this bad."

"The day before Thanksgiving, everyone wants their free-range turkey with organic herbed chestnut stuffing and a bottle of 'Two Buck Chuck," he quipped, taking a jab at the store's selling bottles of Charles Shaw wines for less than the cost of a mocha latte.

"I hope we can find everything in this circus; imagine what our local version must be like right now." She followed him into the store, glad they weren't trying to wedge their way into the Manhattan T.J.'s – a smaller store with even less parking.

As he was with driving, so he was with the cart; Sarah pulled a cart from the rack and surrendered it to him without hesitation. He pushed while she double-checked the list as they shopped. Slowly, they made their way around the island-themed store, employees in Hawaiian shirts darting back and forth among the aisles lined with colorful placards. At a serving station disguised as a tiki hut, coffee samples were available to those who needed a quick shot of caffeine.

Forty-five minutes later, their cart heavily laden, they made their way to the checkout. "One down, one to go," John said, as their purchases were bagged. He pulled out his mother's debit card to pay, mentally reminding himself not to be shocked at the total. Family gatherings gave Ruth Munch a great deal of pleasure; for the joy of being surrounded by those she loved there was no price too costly.

O0O

Once they loaded the first store's goods, Munch took an expressway shortcut to their next stop. Parking was only marginally easier, despite the grocery store's location in a large shopping center. Both were grateful it was a temperate day for running errands, the weather clear with just enough crispness in the breeze to remind them it was autumn. They walked past a Salvation Army bell-ringer, both fishing into their pockets for a few bills to drop into the red kettle before they entered the store.

"This is new since the last time I was here," John said, nodding his head toward a Java Mama inside the entrance to Superfresh. The scent of fresh coffee beckoned to them both, as did the cozy tables with their well-padded chairs. "Let's get something here, before we join the bedlam. I'm still trying to figure out how we're supposed to buy all those groceries without renting a van to get them home."

"No kidding. Before I wade into this tide of crazed shoppers, I definitely need some fortification." She saw a table for two become available. "I'll grab the table – you can surprise me. I'll be fine with whatever you decide to bring me." She made her way to their table and sat down, claiming it while John got into line. She caught his attention, smiling when she saw him looking over the iced gingerbread cookies in the display case.

He smiled back, nodding his head toward the cookies as she shook her head. John considered their gestures for a moment, the shorthand they shared extended far beyond that of merely partners. Before he could give it much more thought, it was his turn in line. He stepped up, ordered a couple cookies and their drinks, while a steady stream of people entered the store.

Several minutes later, he sat a Café Borgia in front of Sarah, the scent of chocolate and orange essence heavy in the air. He saw her satisfied expression and knew he'd chosen wisely. She'd been watching him ever since he'd been in line; the Mona Lisa look remained on her face as he took a seat beside her. "You have a lovely little smile on your face. Happy about your Borgia or is there a joke I'm missing here?"

"It's not just what you brought me," she said, taking a sip. She closed her eyes for a second, reveling in the taste of her mocha. "While you were in line, I was thinking…if being handsome was a crime, you'd be on Death Row." She saw his momentarily perplexed expression and laughed. "C'mon, you know what I mean."

"And people think I'm perverse. But thank you," he said, genuinely accepting the off-beat compliment. "'Death row'…yeah, right." he muttered, shaking his head. "I guess we really are well-matched, at least as far as our sense of humor is concerned."

"I hope your mom thinks so. I like her a lot, John."

"She certainly likes you, too, babe," he replied, knowing in his heart it was true.

"I'm glad." She took a long drink of her coffee, both of them comfortable at their little table, watching the ebb and flow of shoppers. "If she didn't, I'd be on the train headed back to New York by now." Munch was relieved she punctuated her remark with a quick wink.

John was thrilled Sarah didn't merely sit back and watch as events unfolded, she genuinely involved herself in the preparations for Thanksgiving. Unlike some of his ex-wives and past girlfriends who expected to be entertained in the midst of controlled chaos, she was happy to pitch in with whatever needed to be done. He secretly hated grocery shopping alone; they were so used to doing it together in Washington Heights it was easy to enjoy it on the busiest of days, because he wasn't working through his mother's list on his own for a change.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, his right leg against her left, his foot against hers, for once neither of them feeling the weight of their respective ankle holsters. Both had been able to leave backup carries behind, a nod to the fact they were on vacation, the two of them trying not to be cops for a few short days.

John broke the silence first. "I thought of splitting the list in two, with each of us taking half," he began, "but maybe it would be better if we stayed together. I know what Mom's looking for, more or less. I'll probably need your expertise when it comes to quite a few things." He took a sip of tea, looking over the daunting list of necessities.

"Not a problem," she assured him. Sarah bit another arm off her gingerbread man as she read the list once more.

"Are you going to eat the unfortunate little guy or dismember him?" John asked, almost cringing as her second bite beheaded the little guy. "Ouch. I guess my question is answered." He broke his cookie into pieces, a technique considerably less grisly than hers.

"Be glad you're not made of gingerbread," she quipped, washing down the bites of cookie with another pull from her coffee.

"Remember that next time you're hungry." He chuckled as they perused the second page of the list.

She tapped her finger alongside the items on the page. "A lot of baking items," Sarah commented. "Is she making pies?" A request for three cans of Reddi-Whip seemed to confirm her suspicions.

"Her pumpkin pies are incredible," he answered. "I haven't found anyone else's even remotely close to Mom's. It's the amount of spices she uses." He scanned the rest of the page, letting out a quiet huff. "She's cheating – this year she's making apple pies, too, but she's using canned filling."

"A few shortcuts are good," Sarah replied. "It gives her time to concentrate on what's important, like pumpkin." If only John knew how often she also took advantage of store-bought ingredients, he'd probably be a little disappointed.

Ruth Munch had done well by them, grouping her list virtually aisle by aisle to correspond with Superfresh's basic layout. It was a detail they'd appreciate over the next two and a half hours, not having to worry about too much except where to begin. They finished their beverages, Sarah throwing away their trash while John acquired a shopping cart from the dwindling supply.

He steered toward produce, bags of carrots being stocked almost as quickly as they were taken from the display. "What makes one bag of carrots more expensive than the other?" he asked, his tone between genuine curiosity and rhetorical rant. "Is it the color? The distance from the farm to the grocer's? The amount of produce lost to Peter Rabbit and his furry little co-conspirators?" He didn't see the produce manager give him a glance and shake his head sadly. "Some of these brands are almost a dollar more per bag."

"We could get loose carrots," Sarah replied, "but these look better and they're less expensive in the long run." She found some perfectly acceptable reasonably-priced carrots, dropping three bags into the cart. Once they cleared the produce department, she idly wondered what would kindle John's next brief tirade.

They started down the baking items aisle, maneuvering carefully around their fellow shoppers. It was crowded, almost impossible to manage, but they progressed very well. Until they came to the sugar. Sarah picked up a five-pound bag of C&H almost immediately hearing John's protestations. "Put it back."

"Why?" she asked, perplexed. "Is something wrong with it?" Maybe the bag had a small tear she hadn't noticed.

"No. It can't be a brand name," he explained. "My mother's a product of the second world war, when rationing was a way of life. She's watched sugar prices climb into the stratosphere over the years, especially since California and Hawaii – hence the C and H – became a sugar conglomerate and started acting like a cartel to regulate prices."

"Next you'll tell me they almost put Spreckels out of business, as well as being a threat to the corn syrup factories." Sarah shrugged, picked up a bag of store brand sugar and placed it in the cart. "I get the distinct impression you come by your conspiracy theory leanings genetically."

He ignored her barb but knew it was true, nonetheless. "Spreckels was a major sugar processing conglomerate in California, now they're hardly heard of on the West Coast anymore, primarily because cane sugar still trumped beet sugar thanks to the C&H marketing machine," he reminded her. "Need I say more?"

"No, you don't," she said lightly, handing off more supplies. With John's penchant for sweets, Sarah wasn't surprised he knew all about 'Big Sugar' – the cartels of beet sugar and cane sugar processors, who conspired to control the prices of their commodities.

He took two boxes of brown sugar from her, stacking them in the cart, as she handed him baking soda, baking powder, plus several cans of evaporated milk. "Wait, Sarah," he said, handing the canned milk back to her. "Those have to be brand name. She'll want Carnation. She uses it every time." He gave her a look as she let out a huff. "What's wrong?"

"First generic sugar, now name brands? Congratulations, John, you've thoroughly managed to confuse me." She waited for some semblance of an explanation, her hands on her hips.

"If something isn't right with a generic brand, it's harder to contact their customer service people for a replacement," he replied. "It's not an issue with things like sugar, but every now and then she'll open something which shouldn't have made it to the shelf in the first place. With brand names, it's worth her effort to call and let them know." He pushed the cart forward as an elderly woman with lavender-hued hair scowled at them both.

"Makes sense to me," Sarah murmured, "in a twisted, Munch-like way."

Sarah quickly gathered several cans of Ruth's preferred brand of milk before they missed their chance at it. The exercise was repeated in aisle after aisle, both of them marveling at the size of the store, the crush of people and how rapidly their cart had filled. Once Mrs. Munch's list had been triple-checked, John nudged Sarah and asked, "Which line for checkout?"

"Oh, John… You know I'm no good at choosing the fastest line," she reminded him.

"Which is exactly why I'm asking," he said, only half-joking. "Tell me which one and I'll avoid it like the plague."

"Three," she groused. "Wise-ass."

"Let's try five then," he asserted, one of eight people in the line. At least all lanes were open, staffed with clerks bagging groceries as fast as cashiers could total.

Still, Munch and Zelman knew they were in for quite a wait while the line snaked forward. John restlessly checked his cell phone for messages, finding none. He spotted the rack of magazines, stepped away from Sarah to snag a copy of Newsweek, bringing her a copy of People to pass the time.

After fifteen minutes of creeping forward in line, they traded magazines as if on cue, something which amused Fin no end when they did it in the bullpen. By trading publications, they never lacked for common ground when they discussed current events. When the line lurched ahead, John and Sarah worked together to get everything on to the conveyor. Munch shrugged and added the two magazines, knowing his mother would eagerly read them both later.

Somehow, in the process of bagging everything, the need for an extra cart arose. John winced at the total, making a mental note to try and compel his mother to take some money. He knew she wouldn't, despite his best efforts. It was like that every year.

"Looks like we caravan," he said, as Sarah steered the second cart behind him. We're screwed if we bought too much, John thought, maneuvering through the busy parking lot.

They made it to the Saturn and opened the trunk, well aware they still had groceries from the T.J.'s run stashed there. With great effort, a bit of reorganizing the bags and a lot of discussion, they managed to fit everything into the trunk, back seat and floor. Sarah had one bag of produce between her feet, another bag with eggs gently resting on her lap.

"Whatever you do with my car, do it carefully," she said, teasing him. "If you squeal the tires, one of us is going to end up with egg on their face."

"I promise to be gentle," John vowed with a smirk.

"How many times have you told me that?" she retorted, grinning.

"Too many to count – and I've never broken my promise." He started the engine, backed out with care, then negotiated his way through the parking lot. John Munch hated it when he had to crawl along at ten miles an hour or less. Once he made it on to the main thoroughfare, there was something he missed more than anything else.

Despite the heavy traffic, he wanted to drive like a cop.

…_to be continued…_

_00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000_

In case anyone was wondering where Sarah's odd quirk about death scenes comes from, it's my own quirk. I've seen plenty of dead bodies up close, even held a friend as he died in my arms, but when I accidentally walk into a room where a violent death has occurred in the past, it gives me one hell of a silent freak-out. For some reason I can't explain, I actually see the scene at the person's time of death. With that in mind, Sarah gets to cope with it, too!

_00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000_


	6. Chapter 6

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Six

"This car lacks a couple crucial elements," John began, changing lanes into slightly faster traffic. "You should have ordered it with lights and siren." He hit the horn as someone tried to merge into their lane, almost into the side of the Saturn. He took a deep, steadying breath, reminding himself as soon as they got home and put everything away, their time would be their own at last.

"Don't be such a cop," Sarah replied, trying not to laugh. "Considering how much we use the horn, we don't need a siren." She used to joke the first thing to wear out on the car would be its horn, since they both used it more than they should.

"Why is everyone on the road today?" he groused. "They should all be where they need to be at this point – home."

"Everybody has all those picky little last-minute details to take care of," she replied. "The pick up area at BWI is probably backed up for miles. Glad we don't have to make an airport run." She remembered what O'Hare and LAX were like over holidays, the very thought making her cringe inwardly. "It's good your family is all in 'Bawl'mer.'"

"Aside from a few cousins in the New York area, but they've got their own families to celebrate with. We'll certainly have our own houseful by noon, wait and see." The throngs of travelers hadn't made him all that nervous before, but this holiday was different. He was edgy, already thinking ahead to tomorrow. Even though he loved Thanksgiving and was grateful for being able to see his family, something always happened at get-togethers to throw him a curve. As far as Mrs. Munch was concerned, as long as no one got into a shoving match over the gravy, the day could be considered a rousing success.

He pulled the car into the driveway, glad his mother had moved her car to the curb. He saw other cars parked in proximity, most of them Ruth's friends who'd help her throughout the day.

"Tell you what," Sarah began, "I'll bring everything in, if you want to help your mom put it away. You know where she wants things. I have no clue."

"Nice try," he quipped. "You're not a pack animal." He got out, went around to her side and opened the door, extricating her from eggs and fresh vegetables. "We'll both carry things inside." He leaned forward as they exchanged a kiss, the simple action bringing a smile to his face.

Sarah took in groceries from the floor of the back seat, following John closely enough he could hold the door for her. He led the way into the kitchen, as his mother and three of her friends looked up.

"Johnny! You survived!" Ruth said brightly. "I was just telling everyone how spoiled I am, to have a son who does the holiday grocery shopping for me." She looked at Zelman, almost beaming she was so happy. "With my future daughter-in-law, no less."

John's mouth opened slightly as he saw Sarah's eyes widen, her face pale.

"Everyone, this is John's girlfriend, Sarah Zelman." Ruth took the groceries from Zelman's hands, nodding to the three women at the table. "Sarah, meet Rivka, Annette and Beth, good friends of mine from way back."

She pulled together the shreds of her composure long enough to say, "Pleased to meet you." She smiled shyly, wondering what on earth had possessed Ruthie to tell them she and John were getting married. "I don't want to be rude, but I need to help John bring in the rest of what's in the car."

He nodded his head, forced a smile and wished he could throttle his mother. "Ladies…if you'll excuse me." It was all he could do not to bolt after Sarah, who'd had an inadvertent preview of the two days to come. He caught up with her at the car, where she was staring into the trunk. "Sweetie, I'm sorry." He turned her toward him, wrapping his arms around her tightly. "Remember our mantra?"

"Yes. 'She means well,'" Sarah said, knowing it was the truth. "It's okay, John, really. I understand how she feels, it was just such a shock to hear her say it – especially to her friends." She kissed him, leaning her head into his shoulder for a moment before they let go of each other. "C'mon, let's get the rest of these inside." She gave him a nudge. "Not to worry, sweetheart. I can handle it."

"I'm glad you feel that way." He took several plastic bags at once, headed for the front door and disappeared inside.

She gathered up as many bags as she could comfortably carry, knocking lightly on the front door in hopes help would arrive. Rivka opened the door and held it for her, as she voiced her thanks. Ruthie was talking with John in low tones, him shaking his head as if he were getting instructions. She didn't pay it much mind as she went out to bring in more bags.

John came out in time to haul in the heaviest of the canned goods, easily taking a couple of bags in each hand. Between the two of them, with Rivka's help at the door, they made fairly quick work of getting everything inside. "I think we're finished here," he told Sarah as they lined up the last of the bags in the kitchen.

"Ruthie, need anything else?" Zelman asked.

"No, dear," she replied. Giving Sarah a hug and a kiss on cheek, happy it was warmly reciprocated. "Johnny has an errand to run, but that's the last of it for you two. After that, you should go off by yourselves and do something enjoyable."

"Okay, as long as you're sure you don't need us." She waved at the three women, all of whom swarmed the groceries, putting them away. She left the kitchen, wondering where John had disappeared to this time. Sarah went out on the front porch, looked toward the car and saw him there, his lanky frame leaning against the passenger side door.

He opened the car door for her, ever the gentleman. It was one of the things she loved about him; he knew how to treat a lady.

"One more little job, then we're on our own." He gestured toward the back seat, upon which sat a large brown paper bag. "We need to deliver a turkey," he explained.

"To whom?"

"Marianne and Bernie," he answered. "Their place is our next stop."

O0O

"I finally get to meet your brother and his wife," Zelman said, genuinely looking forward to it. "When you said we had 'plans,' was this it?" She reached over, taking his hand in hers.

"No, I hadn't planned on Mom needing us to go over there," he explained. "This works out well, because meeting them tomorrow wouldn't give you much time to talk." He squeezed her hand, raised his brows and looked at her over his lenses. "Don't be shocked by my younger brother – his sense of humor is almost as bizarre as mine."

She gazed into his eyes, before she burst out laughing. "Sweetheart, after hanging around with you all this time, nothing about your relatives could surprise me." Her initial nervousness at the thought of meeting Bernie and Marianne had passed. Sarah was finally able to relax, after the shock of Ruth Munch's comment to her friends.

John whistled softly while he drove to his brother's house, a tune Sarah recognized as vaguely Lou Reed. On the way, he pointed out the high school he'd graduated from, in addition to a few Pikesville landmarks. When they passed Ben's school, John furrowed his brows. "Damn it, I forgot to bring something for my nephew."

"A toy for Ben?" she asked, suddenly concerned.

"Yes. He collects cars – you name it, he has it. I always try to bring him one," he replied. "I can find something for him later, or maybe we'll take him out for lunch." Ben Munch had inherited the family's love of sweets, making a trip to Dairy Queen a definite possibility.

"Let's take him to lunch… That'd be fun," she decided.

"I'll ask Bernie and Marianne about it, not that it would pose a problem." He pulled up in front of 2816 Washington Way, a gleaming black hearse in the drive. Seeing it, John joked, "Hey, look – my ride's here."

Sarah groaned at his gallows humor, but laughed nonetheless. "He takes a company car home, obviously," she joked. She liked Bernie already, his twisted sense of humor no doubt influenced by his older brother. "I'm sure his neighbors love seeing a long black car remind them of their ultimate fate."

"Not to worry, it usually lives at the mortuary," John replied. "I wonder why it's here?" He pushed the thoughts aside as he wrestled the large, fully thawed bird from the back seat. "Time for you to meet more Munches."

They walked up to the front door, John rang the doorbell and waited.

Marianne answered the door as her face lit up in a grin.

Before she could say anything, John called out, "The turkey's here!"

"Yes and he brought a 21-pound bird with him," Marianne quipped as they all laughed. "Mom told me to expect you and Sarah," she said, opening the door wide. As they stepped inside, John opened his mouth to introduce Zelman, but before he could get the words out his sister-in-law said, "Sarah, I'm so glad we could finally meet. Ruthie's told me so much about you!" She took a step toward her, then hesitated. "I'd give you a hug, but I'm such a mess right now."

"Don't worry – I'll take a rain check on that hug," she replied warmly. "It's a pleasure to see you, Marianne. John's told me a lot about you, Bernie and Ben." She watched as John went off to find a place in the fridge for the bird. Sarah looked around a bit, past the small foyer. "You have a beautiful home here."

"Thanks. If only I could keep it a little more picked up." Mrs. Bernard Munch pushed back thick dark hair, cut simply and threaded with almost enough silver-gray to be obvious. Her hair was long enough to fall just above her shoulders, framing a pleasant face, rounded in counterpoint to her husband's. She motioned to Zelman to come with her into the kitchen. "C'mon, let me get you and John something to drink."

They converged in the kitchen, John staring into the refrigerator with intent. "Got any cream soda? I don't see any in here."

"Dr. Brown's, bottom of the pantry, but you'll have to pour it over ice." She turned to Sarah, then waved her hand as a magician would over a top hat. "I should give you the nickel tour of this place. Here's our kitchen, which we remodeled earlier this year. I'm still getting used to having much more room."

"It's gorgeous," Sarah said, taking the glass of soda John offered her. "I'm curious… Why are you cooking, too? I thought everyone gathered at Ruthie's for dinner."

"One bird isn't enough to feed everyone," she explained. "I'll bring one, too, along with a few more things I know Ben will eat. Not that he's too picky or anything, but he knows what he likes." She opened the fridge and snagged a Diet Coke for herself, watching a figure which resisted every effort to drop those last seven pounds standing between her and her 'skinny jeans.'

Bernie walked into the kitchen, first catching sight of his older brother. "Johnny! Impeccable timing; you can help me load some tables." He turned as Marianne intentionally cleared her throat. "You must be Sarah Zelman," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Bernard, but family calls me 'Bernie.' I hope you'll call me that, too, Sarah."

"Nice to meet you, Bernie," she said, as they shook hands cordially. "Do you or Marianne need help with anything?" Surprisingly, she felt very much at home. It helped seeing Bernie's wife dressed in old jeans and a slightly ratty-looking dark green t-shirt, no makeup on her face.

"Actually, I do. It's something my brother can help me with," he replied. "John, you'll need to take off your suit coat. This involves a bit of heavy lifting."

"Not so fast. I'm not doing anything until I see Ben," he said amiably, leaning against the center island. "Where is the little guy? He didn't meet me at the door like he usually does." He put down his glass of soda, genuinely concerned he hadn't seen his nephew.

"Ben's at my sister's place right now," Marianne answered. "He gets pretty wound-up the day before Thanksgiving. We needed to give him a quieter place to hang out. It's a treat for him, since her kids have a Nintendo."

"Mystery solved," Bernie said. "Now, let's get to the task at hand, shall we?" John took off his suit jacket, handed it to Sarah, then dutifully followed him out to the backyard, where several folding tables were collapsed and waiting. "We need to put these in the hearse – very carefully, without scratching it."

"Bernie, why are you using the hearse to move these? Something about this positively reeks of the absurd." John shook his head, marveling at his brother's choice of conveyance. Personally, it didn't bother him people would be eating off of tables carried in a hearse, but then again seeing death wasn't part of everyone's daily existence.

"Because I don't have a pickup truck and the SUV's cargo hold isn't long enough," his tone of voice indicated he thought his brother was nothing less than simple-minded for asking. "Have you ever tried to rent a truck before a four-day weekend?" Without waiting for an answer he said, "Nobody has one available, which is why we're using the hearse."

"Yeah, right. I'll try to be careful," John said, taking one end of the first table. "But you're going to scare Mom's neighbors to death with this thing. It looks like you're trolling for business." He helped Bernie ease the first table in, unable to argue with his logic, but finding the entire situation more than a bit macabre. "Do you need me to go over with you and help unload these?"

"I'd hate to tear you away from Sarah, but I wouldn't refuse an extra hand," he admitted.

"Here, I'll take care of this," John replied, leaning into the open driver's side window and tapping the horn twice. Moments later, he saw Sarah walking toward him, a curious look on her face.

"You rang?" she asked dryly.

"Bernie didn't want to deprive you of my scintillating conversation or ebullient personality, by dragging me off with him to unload tables." He glanced back at the closed hearse, a tabletop visible through the windows.

"You two go ahead," she insisted. "Besides, how many opportunities do you get to ride in a hearse while you're still alive?"

"Since you put it that way, how could I refuse?" He wrapped his arms around her, his lips on hers in a leisurely kiss. "You're sure you don't mind?"

"Of course not. I'll see what I can do to help Marianne."

He watched her turn, to go back into the house. "Shall we?"

"Let's, before you decide you can't leave without her," Bernie quipped, having seen the expression on his brother's face as he watched Sarah. "Even I have to admit, it's rather cute to see you in love again."

"'Cute'?" John repeated, incredulous. "I'm not 'cute,' Bernie. You and Marianne are cute and have been since you fell for her in high school." He opened the passenger side door, got in and looked his brother in the eye. "You were an absolute poodle for her, but I – being the wonderful brother I am – kept the teasing to a minimum, because my ability to sense real love is accurate when I see it in other people."

Bernie started the engine and slowly rolled the hearse out of the driveway. Listening to make sure the load in back hadn't shifted, he pulled out on to the street. "It's a major quirk you have, being able to sense it in everyone but yourself. I'd like to think I have the same ability, because I knew each time you married you'd found someone who was going to shatter your heart and leave you despondent."

"You felt that way about Gwen, too? I thought you liked Gwen!" John said, becoming a bit agitated at the thought his brother hadn't been straight with him.

"I did like Gwen, very much as a matter of fact," he replied. "Yet I could tell she wasn't the woman for you, not with her harpy mother whom I'm sure fed on the entrails of those writers she 'reviewed.'" He remembered Mrs. Talbot's funeral, Gwen having to rent a wailer for an empty visitation room, the woman was so thoroughly reviled.

"Why in the hell didn't you tell me all this before I married her, if you're such a damned psychic?" John let out a huff, trying to keep his temper in check.

"I did, Johnny, but love not only made you blind, it made you deaf," he insisted. "I tried to talk to you endless times about not marrying the women you pursued, but you didn't want to hear the truth come from me. I don't think you wanted to hear it at all," he added softly. "I've always tried to accept your wives, but you have such an odd penchant for women who are spoiled, selfish or both."

He sat mutely, Bernie's words almost ringing in his head. He finally understood, his brother had tried to save him from heartache time after time and he hadn't listened. He finally broke the silence with a long sigh. "I guess I owe you an apology, Bernie. I should have left my pride at the door and listened to you, before rushing into a relationship with every potential trophy wife." He shook his head sadly, feeling guilty. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, brother mine. Consider it all water under the bridge at this point, with no harm done." He glanced over and smiled at John, trying to get him to do the same. "If it's any consolation, you and Sarah seem well-matched – but don't hold me to it, since we've just met."

"I hope you're right," he replied. "It's been a little over a year; it's all moved so fast." He gazed out the window, thinking about how much he and Pikesville had changed in twelve months. How much his life had changed, after having given up on love.

"It's amazing what can happen when you're not looking for it, isn't it? After that barmaid finished with you, I was seriously concerned for your mental health," Bernie asserted. "You buried yourself in work, almost avoiding all of us."

"Once Billie Lou and I split, I needed time to be alone, to get some things sorted out," he reminded him. "Four failed marriages took their toll on me, Bernie. I thought there wasn't anything left for me, but working Special Victims and going home. Alone." His eyes downcast, he remembered what had happened almost immediately after the wedding. "She toyed with me. All along, she was playing me against Gharty, then she pretended she wanted me back. Who wouldn't want to drop out after those mind games?"

"I understand, Johnny," he replied, "but you forgot we were here for you. You tuned us out when we tried to help."

"For which I apologize. A year ago, even talking about it was still too painful," he said.

"You were rather pensive last year, as I remember." He hoped he could pull into the drive at Ruth's, rather than parking at the curb and carrying the tables even farther. "It worried all of us, especially me. Was it because of September eleventh, or because of Sarah?"

"Both. Last year, I still felt like we might have bonded over tragedy, not love," he replied. "Despite Don Cragen's best efforts, I wasn't sure she'd stay – with the squad or with me." There. It was out. John felt as if a huge rock had been pried off his chest, thanks to his brother's adroit question.

"You know what your problem is?" Bernie asked, backing the hearse into his mother's driveway.

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me," John replied, listening intently.

"You were denied the hunt, which still leaves you not knowing what to do. Unlike Gwen, Sarah hadn't set her sights on marrying a member of the thin blue line," he began, turning off the ignition. "She's a beautiful woman, but not typical 'trophy wife' material like Nancy or Maria both thought they were. You didn't have to compete for her, you didn't meet her in a bar, and because there was no chest-pounding or posturing you were denied the opportunity to show off." His tone was gentle, however he was insistent this time because his brother needed to know the truth.

"Ouch." John let out a long sigh. "Are you finished?"

"No, I'm not," he replied. "You're also grappling with her being a cop."

"Okay, now you're full of bullshit, Bernie," he snapped. "I knew she was FBI and it's never been an issue." He put his hand on the door, ready to open it and get out.

"Johnny, I hit a nerve because I'm right. It's incredibly hard for you to be on equal footing with a woman you love. You're not used to it and you still don't know exactly how to handle it." He got out as his brother followed, both of them going to the back of the Cadillac.

"Maybe you're right…maybe," he relented. "Since you have all the answers today, what should I do? Do you think I've overwhelmed her, bringing her home to meet everyone?"

"She seems to be handling it well, according to what I've heard from Mom. I don't think it was a mistake, Johnny," he assured him. "However, you need to do what Marianne and I did – take things slowly. Don't push her. Simply let it all happen," he urged him. "Once you do, everything else will fall into place." He started to pull out the first of the tables, but John stood there, momentarily contemplating Bernie's advice. "Are you going to help me with these, or stand there like a statue the rest of the day?"

John broke from his thoughts. "What? Oh. Yeah, I've got the other end."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." As they worked together to carry the tables to the back patio, a slight smile chased the seriousness from his face. "But I'm still trying to figure out how my little brother became so damned smart."

O0O

Marianne was standing at the sink when she heard a car pull into the drive. "Here they come. I hope Bernie remembered to gas up the Explorer," she said. She halved cherry tomatoes to add to a large bowl of salad earmarked for the next day, to be tossed with croutons and Caesar dressing. "How's the kugel coming along?"

"Found everything I need, except for raisins," Sarah replied.

"In the cabinet to your left, first shelf." Marianne knew where everything was, how much of it she had, and who'd been into it last. Raisins were something Ben usually requested on his oatmeal, along with a heaping spoonful of brown sugar. She tried unsuccessfully to keep them out of his reach; he was tall for a six year old, inheriting his father's height, in contrast to her five foot four frame.

"Cool. Thanks," Sarah said, hurriedly using her palm as a measuring cup as she added raisins to the other ingredients. Only moments after the brothers had gone off on their errands, she'd taken off her gray blazer to settle down to work. Once she saw noodles simmering in a large saucepan on the back burner, it was an easy guess what Marianne intended for them.

She invited Zelman to give everyone a sample of her cooking skills, offering her refrigerator and pantry to pillage as needed. "Will you be upset if I tell you something?" Marianne asked cautiously. She had turned, looking at Sarah's back, trying not to laugh.

"It takes a lot to upset me," she replied, grinning. "Give it your best shot, why don't you?" She beat several eggs with a wire whisk, before she added spices, vanilla and sugar.

"I was just thinking how strange it looks to see you standing at the stove," Marianne began, "cooking while you're wearing a gun." She broke out in a fit of the giggles, unable to contain herself. "It looks like a new series for the Food Network, 'When Cops Cook,' or something. I hope you're not offended."

Zelman was laughing, too, fully understanding the absurdity of it all. "Believe me, no offense taken," she asserted. "When John and I cook together, you'd think a firefight was about to break out. I hardly notice carrying a gun anymore – until I need it, then it's nice to have handy." She finished folding all the ingredients together, poured the mixture into a Pyrex baking dish and eased it into the oven. "If I'm not here in forty-five minutes, will you check this for me?"

"Sure. I have a feeling you won't be, though," Marianne replied. "Look who's been caught in the gravitational pull of the kitchen." She wiped her hands on a paper towel, as Bernie bent slightly to kiss her. "Please tell me you took the hearse back to the shop." 'The Shop.' Their preferred term for Munch Mortuary, neither of them wanting to call it a funeral home.

"It's back in its rightful place," he assured her. "I see you've had help." His tone was appreciative, not lost on John as he walked in to get a preview of tomorrow's fare.

"You're letting her cook?" he asked, visibly alarmed. "Marianne, what on earth possessed you to be so reckless? Bernie, didn't I tell you leaving her behind would mean nothing but trouble?"

"Wise-ass," Sarah chastised, wrapping her arms around him. "Disparaging my cooking is going to cost you big." He knew she was joking when she kissed him, momentarily unwilling to let go. "We're leaving the NYPD, by the way. Marianne has our future planned for us – we're going to be famous on Food Network."

He tipped his head back, looked at both women over the top of his lenses and laughed. "'We' as in, you and I? This I have to hear." He noticed Bernie was also listening intently.

"I'm selling you out, John," Marianne insisted. "You and Sarah both. You're the new stars of 'When Cops Cook.' Of course, you'll have to wear your blues again, but maybe I can arrange for a couple of aprons." She smirked as he groaned at the thought of it all. Bernie chuckled, thinking it wasn't a half-bad idea because it was considerably safer than police work. "See? Bernie's with me, I can tell."

"Errant souls will be ice skating in the bowels of Hell before I'll ever wear an apron," he retorted, a wry smile on his face. "Sorry, but this show's been cancelled. I have plans for the afternoon with my co-star." He glanced at Bernie, brows raised for a moment. "Unless you two need anything else?"

"It was enough, your helping to move the tables. Thank you," he replied. "I will warn you, don't stay out too late; Mom's counting on you to lift the turkey into the oven for her tomorrow morning." It had become a tradition since Ruth had grown older, John's help at around five a.m. every Thanksgiving morning.

"I hadn't forgotten," he replied. "I'll call her."

"See you both tomorrow," Sarah called out, as John led her from the room. She went to the foyer closet, handed him his suit coat and shrugged into her blazer. "Where are we going?"

"You'll have to ride along and see," he insisted, no hint in his expression as he maintained a poker face. "Since you have no idea where we're going, I guess it's a good thing I kept the car keys."

"Yeah, as if you'd let me drive," she quipped. "I'm surprised you didn't make Bernie give you the keys to his hearse." Having heard John grouse more than once about leaving the NYPD to join his brother in the funeral business, she could actually picture him behind the wheel.

"Who do you think drove back from the shop?" he asked rhetorically.

"I should have known." They walked out the door, she looked pleasantly puzzled, more than idly curious about what he had in mind.

…to be continued…


	7. Chapter 7

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Seven

He dropped down five blocks to pick up Reisterstown Road, which he knew would take them into the historic 'Main Street' area of town. John noticed Sarah was quietly taking in every detail of the mix along the way; restored Victorian homes, apartment buildings, neatly kept row houses, verdant parks, synagogues of various sizes, a middle-school which looked nearly new.

Munch allowed her silence in which to absorb it all, his mind on their final destination. Pikesville Pointe was the revitalized stretch of what the locals called 'Main Street,' an eclectic collection of what used to be considered 'mom and pop' stores, major retailers, clubs, restaurants, bars, salons, clothiers, all stretched over more area than most city's malls.

He parked in a public lot near the center of the action. "We're here." John knew Sarah adored kicky little shops with unique names and merchandise not found in big metro areas. She wouldn't be disappointed, the brick buildings having retained their architectural details and the character of age, while brimming with the unfamiliar.

"This is beautiful, this entire area," she said, her eyes lighting up. "You remembered how much I love places like this. How much it reminds me of the old Chicago neighborhood." She leaned over and kissed him, gently running her hands through his graying black hair. "You're so sweet to me, John," she said, almost whispering.

He kissed her nose, then allowed his lips to glance her forehead in one more kiss before they left the car. "I know sometimes you must miss all the hole in the wall joints, like in Northwest Chicago or the place you told me about in L.A. – "

"The Fairfax District, where the kosher butchers are, the glatt kosher restaurants, the shuls, farmers' market… You're right, I do miss all of it from time to time, but I'd rather live in Washington Heights with you, my handsome Romanian."

"Nothing makes me happier than to hear that," he replied, taking her hand in his. Maybe our childhoods weren't so different after all, he thought, mentally comparing Pikesville to places like Skokie – not all that far from where Zelman had grown up.

Hand in hand, they walked along sidewalks lined with shops already decorated in anticipation of holiday shoppers. Planters with poinsettias and topiary evergreens dotted the walks, while banners stretched across Main Street reminded everyone when the public Hanukkah menorah would be lighted each evening over eight nights. Another banner, ringed with multicolored lights welcomed everyone and proclaimed the area's Christmas tree would be illuminated on December 1st, at dusk. Santa would be coming in on an antique fire truck with his elves, giving treats to all good children. In a lot of ways, John and Sarah felt as if they'd stepped back in time.

A woman with two young girls in tow came out of the bakery a few doors down, the heavy aroma of freshly ground espresso beans and cinnamon sugar wafting after them. "Not yet," he said, as they meandered past. "I have a place in mind, about a block from here."

John took her to Zorba's for a late lunch, a Greek restaurant he used to frequent when he worked for the BPD. Beneath a blue and white striped awning, he opened the door for Sarah, his hand on the small of her back as he guided her to a table facing a beautiful hand-painted mural of the Mediterranean. They sat across from each other; she admired the décor and cerulean blue tablecloths as he handed her a menu, spanakopita on his mind.

The server came over to take their order not long after they'd closed their menus. As he remembered, service was prompt in the family-owned restaurant. "I'll have the chicken kabob and spanakopita plate, with some iced tea," John decided.

"Make that two," Sarah added, as the waiter nodded and took their menus. "Very pretty place. You ate here a lot?" She reached forward as he did the same, the two of them clasping hands across the table.

John reveled in their ability to do as they wanted, without prying eyes watching them. "I probably came in here at least three times a week, mostly for breakfast. They open earlier than most places. I'm not sure how it is now, but they used to have five or six different kinds of omelets, yogurt they made themselves and Greek coffee with pastries you won't find anywhere else. You have no idea how much I've missed this place."

They both looked up and smiled as the server brought their iced tea, accompanied by a basket holding warm triangles of pita bread, with a small plate of hummus beside it.

"I'm glad you're sharing it with me. I have to admit, I have no clue how you managed to wrangle time off for both of us," Sarah said. "I've only been with the squad about a year, which certainly doesn't give me any right to take this much time over a holiday." She ripped the wrapper from her straw, smoothing the paper before she rolled it into a tiny cylinder. "I can't thank you enough, John. We desperately needed to get away and spend some time out of New York."

John had told her about his having retired from the BPD, growing dissatisfied with Baltimore, needing to get back into police work with the NYPD after he moved to New York. Although he'd been with SVU not terribly long after Cragen had taken command of what was then a new squad, he seemed to have a certain sway with his C.O., which certainly hadn't gone unnoticed by Zelman.

"I've carried a lot of water for Don Cragen, almost from the start," he admitted. "I've done things other detectives wouldn't or emotionally couldn't do in the squad. In some ways, my homicide experience gave him an advantage, too. Fortunately, he recognizes and appreciates it, which is why he didn't hesitate to give us time off together." His expression shifted from almost sad to sarcastic in a flash. "I also told him you'd bring him a raspberry bear claw every morning for the rest of your life."

"Good thing it's only pastry," she quipped. "I guess I should be thankful you didn't promise him my soul."

"Well, since you mentioned it…" he teased, feeling her foot push against his.

"Oh, really? Now you're making me wonder what else you haven't told me," she joked. He sat up straighter in his chair, his smile slowly fading. "John? What's on your mind, sweetheart?"

"All joking aside, there was a little more to the conversation with Bernie than what I'd told you last night," he began, a bit warily. He didn't look at Sarah, instead he took the opportunity to tear a piece of bread and dip it into the chickpea spread artfully garnished with olive oil and paprika.

"I had a feeling there was more to this. Care to clue me in?" she asked, toying with a packet of Sweet N' Low. "It's more immersion therapy, isn't it?" Her tone was playful, yet he could hear a distinct note of hesitation beneath.

"You could say that," he admitted, his expression one of chagrin. "After shul on Friday night, the temple hosts a dinner. Mom bought tickets for her, Bernie's family, and us," he said simply. "We're all sitting at the rabbi's table." He took a bite of bread, waited for Sarah's long sigh or strident protest but heard neither, leaving him puzzled. "You're not going to yell, ''I've had enough!' and stalk out?"

"Have I ever?" she shot back, grinning.

"There's a first time for everything," he retorted, half-expecting her to balk at the prospect of almost two solid days with his closest family. "You're not going to end my life here and now, because I waited to tell you about this?" He looked into her eyes, wondering if there was a storm brewing after all.

She laughed, not with mirth, with nervousness. "I'll let you live, otherwise I won't have anyone to commiserate with afterward." She took a long sip of tea, shrugged and knew there was no way they could get out of it no matter how they felt. "It's an honor to sit with the rabbi, John. There's no way I'd ever want to disappoint your mom. She must have gone to some trouble to swing the seating arrangements."

"You're still flipped out about shul though, aren't you?" he asked, realizing attending services was all she bargained on, not spending the entire evening at temple, meeting a lot of people she may or may not see again. "It's okay to admit it, babe. I understand how you feel. I can see how much effort you're putting into all of this."

"I'm secretly terrified, but it means so much to your mom and to Bernie's family I'll be fine," she assured him. "I also know it means a lot to you."

"Yes. Yes, it does," he admitted softly. "None of my other – "

She knew what he was going to say. "John, stop, it's okay…they weren't Jewish, it wasn't expected of them." They both knew it was considered bad form to talk about previous relationships, but with their track records they realized it was impossible not to discuss the past.

"This is new to me, too," he said. "I had no idea it was a major event, my finding another member of the tribe. I'm surprised my mom hasn't contacted the media." He could feel the skin on the side of his neck begin to itch. Nerves were getting to him as he thought of trying to recall the Reform Jewish liturgy, how he would introduce Sarah, ways in which to mitigate his mother's inadvertent assertions there would be marriage soon and who knew what else. He reached up to scratch, trying to be nonchalant; Zelman knew exactly what was going on.

She gave him a look, deciding it best to get him thinking about something else, anything else. Food. Good choice of topic, one which always distracted him. "Any idea what they're serving Friday evening?" She silently prayed it wasn't beef or lamb, because she wasn't fond of red meat. The advantage to eating at the shul, even a Reform temple, was that the meal would either be kosher or 'kosher-style.'

"Bernie told me it would be baked salmon with dill sauce, vegetables, challah, some kind of fancy dessert – and wine, of course. Kiddush, to welcome Shabbos as the queen it is," he said, remembering those infrequent Friday nights when his father was home and tolerated his mom's penchant for occasional observance.

"Sounds good," she decided. "It's also a meal your mom won't have to cook, since she'll probably be wiped out from Thanksgiving."

He was relieved she was being a good sport about it all, without faking acquiescence for his benefit. Before he could voice his gratitude, their meals arrived, the spinach and feta in phyllo every bit as wonderful as he remembered it.

Sarah almost corrected John, to remind him Oneg was Friday night and Kiddush is after Saturday mid-morning services. She decided against it, however, because he was already more than a little edgy about it all. She knew what he meant – the blessing said to begin Shabbat, usually coupled with a little nosh and schmooze at temple before the service.

They ate in near silence, their comments mostly focused on the food or the proliferation of shops. At last, between bites of chicken kabob, John paused for a moment, his mood contemplative. "Sarah," he began, "what would you like to do on Friday? We'll have plenty of time to do almost anything before we go to shul."

She considered his question carefully, wanting to make the most of his time with family. "This might sound a little weird, since I haven't met him yet, but I'd like us to take Ben to lunch. Or, for that matter, anywhere he'd like to go," she amended. "I know you want to spend time with him. Why not Friday, while the crazed public goes out to mob the mall?"

John Munch was momentarily speechless.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked, perplexed.

"No, not at all," he replied, finally finding his voice once more. "I didn't expect…I mean," he almost stammered. "Sarah – " He took a quick sip of iced tea, feeling his throat tighten while he searched for the most diplomatic phrasing.

"You're having a past-wife experience, John." She huffed gently, taking a long pull from her own beverage.

"They never thought about Ben," he explained. "None of them realized how much he means to me, even though Gwen tried to understand how much I love kids." He gestured widely, frustrated he couldn't express precisely how he felt, forgetting he didn't have to because Zelman understood.

"I didn't suggest it to be patronizing," she assured him.

"You'd never do that to me, babe, I know," he said softly. "I love the little squirt as if he were my own." He smiled, took out his well-worn leather wallet, flipped it open as it fell easily to display a school photo of Benjamin Jay Munch. She admired his thick, glossy black hair and mischievous dark eyes. "He's not my only nephew, but no question about it, he's my favorite."

"He's adorable. Handsome little guy," she replied. "I can't wait to meet him." Sarah didn't want to add, 'and I hope he likes me,' because John already knew how she felt about his family. Acceptance hadn't been something 'Tigress' had ever craved, from anyone or anything, until now. Often, even with her family, she was construed to be a solitary cat. "I want you to spend time with him, John. If you'd like time with him to yourself, I can always – "

"No. Sarah, it's important to me he spends time with both of us," Munch asserted. "I want him to get to know you. Before you realize it, you'll be wrapped around his finger like I am." He took a sip of tea and chuckled. "Not to say I'm asking you to spoil him in any way, but he's so curious and such a character, it's hard not to go along with almost anything he asks. Which sounds like I'm aiding and abetting a future sociopath, although it's not like that at all."

She laughed, giving him a gentle kick beneath the table. "Take that for even suggesting a Munch family member would be sociopathic," she joked. "He sounds like an absolute charmer, funny and smart." She nodded as their server asked if he could take their plates, both of them ready to walk off their meal. "Please ask Marianne about Friday?"

"I will, sweetie. Thank you for suggesting it." John looked for the check, surprised at how quickly Sarah had purloined it. "Hey, give it back. That belongs to me." He never knew how she managed to snag a lunch or dinner check so surreptitiously.

"This one's on me. It's the least you deserve." She pulled enough out of her purse to pay the check and leave a generous tip for the flawless service. "I like this place…hope we can come back again sometime."

"Count on it," he replied, as they left to explore more of Pikesville Pointe's quaint shops.

O0O

Hand in hand once more, they passed a men's clothier, a solid deep gray shirt and matching tie in the main display window. The fabric had an extremely subtle shimmer, looked soft to the touch and captivated both of them. "Do you like those? The monochromatic look is really in right now. They'd go great with your dark charcoal suit." Through the glass, she caught the attention of a sales associate, who came to the door and invited them inside.

"You have an amazing talent for knowing what looks best on me, I'll admit," John said, as the associate brought over the shirt and tie for his approval. He ran his hand over the fabric, pleased it felt as soft as it looked. "I could probably wear this for eighteen hours straight and still feel good in it." He flipped over the tie, taking a closer look. It was silk. He hesitated to even think about how much they cost, not wanting Zelman to feel obligated. "Ouch. Maybe I should look around a bit more."

"Sweetheart, it's okay," she whispered in his ear. "I never had the chance to buy you an anniversary present."

September had seen them swamped with sex crimes, often working twenty-hour days, grabbing whatever sleep they could in the cribs, wondering if they'd ever see their respective apartments again. They'd even been denied the opportunity to attend September eleventh memorial services, something they deeply regretted. While it marked a time of tragedy for the nation, it was nonetheless the first anniversary of when they met. Each year it would be bittersweet because their life together began amongst almost incalculable death.

"Are you sure?" He had brought enough shirts, a subtle blue stripe for tomorrow, yet this one held an allure. John could already see himself in it, a silver tie tack to hold the silk secure against the shirt. His shirt.

"Absolutely." She took the shirt and tie from the sales associate as he removed a tape measure from his pocket, checked John's sleeve length, neck measurement, then went to retrieve the perfect size. "You'll look fantastic in those. Besides, you deserve them."

"Thank you, sweetie," he said, rewarding her with a kiss.

She made John turn his back while her purchases were totaled, knowing he'd felt a twinge of guilt. Sarah paid, carrying the bag with her as they left. "Happy anniversary," she said, walking close enough to him to momentarily put her head against his shoulder.

"Same to you, my little fashion consultant," he replied, taking the bag from her. "Look in there…they're selling relics from our youth." They heard 1960's jazz spilling out of a store specializing in obscure vinyl 'platters,' with an emphasis on jazz, fusion and rock from the era. "Do you mind if we browse?"

"I'd love it if we did," Zelman agreed, walking into the store as Munch followed close behind.

The store smelled like patchouli incense, sections partitioned with various colors of beaded curtains, the tables laden with bins of records sitting on brightly tie-dyed cloths. John looked around, silently delighted at the painted brick walls with posters from 60's rock concerts, shelves brimming with paperback books almost everywhere. He spotted a lava lamp behind the counter, glowing green 'lava' bubbling thickly between its yellow base and top.

He began to thumb through a bin of Jefferson Airplane LPs, the music taking him back to days of his temperamental Volkswagen bug, 'free love,' protest marches and more than a few 'trips' without benefit of physical transportation. He glanced over at Sarah, who was thoroughly engrossed in her own memories as she read the liner notes of a Moody Blues record. She, too, was back in the 1960s, younger than he was at the time but almost equally aware of everything from the assassination of JFK to Woodstock and beyond.

A man in his early thirties, head cleanly shaved to disguise early-onset hair loss, wandered over in his tattered jeans and blue 'Erase Racism' t-shirt. "If there's anything you can't find, don't hesitate to ask – there's plenty more in the back room."

"Do you mind taking this to the counter for me?" John asked, buying a replacement for a Janis Joplin record that succumbed to the heat and warped two years ago. "I'll take this, too." Grace Slick was added to the stack, which suddenly included Sarah's purchase of a vintage Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young album as well as the Moody Blues platter whose notes she'd finished reading.

Meandering once more after buying their tunes, everything nestled in a purple tie-dyed tote bag she'd reuse next week to carry groceries, they caught a subtle whiff of eucalyptus in the air. John turned, the scent from a day-spa attracting his attention. The reception area evoked profound relaxation in its calming shades of blue, the sleek furniture beckoned to those who had to wait their turn. "I know what we can get Marianne – a massage," Sarah decided. "I wanted to get her a gift certificate, to thank her for letting me use her kitchen and for making me feel at home. It'll be from both of us."

"She doesn't get very much time off," John replied. "When she does, she's running around taking care of a million things at once. She'd love being able to come here," he said, taking a look around as they walked inside. "I think even Mom would enjoy this place." They traded hellos with the blonde receptionist, the young woman fashionably thin, dressed all in black, radiated a genuine friendliness.

"I know a hint when I hear one."

"It wasn't meant to be," he countered. "I was thinking ahead to Hanukkah. We all chip in as a family to get something for Mom." He perused the tastefully displayed potions arranged throughout, recognizing some of the masks, muds, and moisturizers as things his ex-wives once bought with his hard-earned cash.

"Tell you what; I'll get Mom a gift certificate for a massage, too. If she likes it, we could pool our resources to get her a spa day. Sound good to you?"

John's grin was wide as he gazed at Sarah. "You didn't hear yourself just now, did you?"

"No, I guess not… Why?" She was momentarily befuddled, more so in light of his expression.

"You called my mother 'Mom,' instead of Ruthie." He said it with a measure of deep satisfaction.

"Oh my god, I did, didn't I?" She was stunned, not sure if she should apologize or not. It hadn't been intentional, it had simply…happened. "Two gift certificates for hour-long massages, please," she said to the young woman. "One for Ruth Munch and the other for Marianne Munch."

"I'll have to get them from the back," she replied. "It will only take a moment. Would you care to sit down? Please help yourself to some tea, if you'd like."

Sarah sat down heavily on an earth-tone loveseat, still unnerved by her verbal slip-up. John fixed himself a cup of herbal tea before settling beside her. "John, I'm – "

"Please, whatever you do, don't apologize," he urged. "Thinking of her in those terms is good, sweetie. Do you have any idea how flattered she'd be if she'd heard you?" He took a sip of tea, then offered the cup to Sarah. "She'd be floating somewhere in the stratosphere right now. If you call her 'mom,' I promise she won't pop an aneurysm or anything of the sort. Don't worry."

"She may not, but what about everyone else?" The last thing Zelman wanted was to seem like she was ingratiating herself into the Munch family.

"Stop it," he insisted. "No one's going to mind. Your official hazing won't begin until your second visit." John elbowed her gently, to make sure she got the joke.

"It's anybody's guess why I put up with you," she retorted, giggling. They watched approvingly as each certificate was slipped into a rice paper envelope, the centerpiece of a beautiful gift bag with tissue and ribbon. "Hey, looks like we're ready."

Moments later, they were consolidating their bags for easier carrying, both enjoying each other's company as well as the leisurely pace of their shopping.

O0O

The blaze of sunset grudgingly gave way to the deep encroachment of twilight, tiny white lights sparkling in the barren trees. Despite the holiday tomorrow, the shops were open late, the restaurants even later to accommodate those who weren't preoccupied with meals to prepare or Thanksgiving travel.

Munch saw a small jewelry shop, its front display cases filled with what had to be custom work. He stood, seemingly transfixed by the complexity of many of the pieces, the handcrafted gold work eclipsing the near-perfect stones in rings, necklaces and bracelets. At the far left edge of one shelf, he spotted it: Something he'd wanted to get Sarah for quite some time.

"Let's go in. I see something I'd like a closer look at," he insisted, not waiting for her reply.

She followed, wondering if he'd seen something for his mom. It was a small storefront, much of the space it leased taken up with work area in back. Sarah nodded her greeting to the fellow who said hello to them, before she stood to the side and allowed John to do the talking. She rested their bags on the floor, wrangling them out of the way.

"What can I show you today?" the gentleman asked.

"There's something here in the display," John replied, walking over to the window to point out a small charm on a chain. "It looks like white gold. May I see it?"

"Of course." He lifted out a tiny Star of David on a thin yet durable chain, dropping it into John's outstretched hand. "It's 18-karat. Would you like a loupe?" he asked, ready to pull a jeweler's magnifying glass from his pocket.

"No, I don't think I need to see it through a loupe, thank you. Did you make this?" It looked as if someone had made a paperclip from the precious metal, then used half of it to twist into a simple, unadorned six-pointed star. "It's beautiful."

"I made it a few days ago, yes," the fellow replied. "I was trying something a little different, you know? Something maybe not too showy, not as big as most of them usually are. A lot of people, they like to have something a little flashy – but not everybody." He raised his eyebrows a bit. "For her?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yes. I'll take it." John tried to hand it back, but was waved off.

"Maybe she'd like to try it on," he offered. "Maybe to wear tonight?"

They both noticed Sarah was engrossed in the pieces in the display case she was leaning in front of, admiring the unique ways in which semi-precious stones accented a wide variety of baubles in metals most artists were too hesitant to try. John came up behind her; as she stood, he placed the chain around her neck and fastened the clasp.

She let out a small gasp. "What did you go and do?" He handed her a mirror, watching her reflection as she smiled. "Oh, John…it's exquisite. This is exactly the size and kind I was looking for, but you shouldn't." Upon closer inspection, she realized it wasn't sterling silver. "My gosh, it's gold…now you really shouldn't."

"I should and I'm going to," he said, his voice gentle. "You've been wanting something very simple, small and unique. I've watched you search, when you thought I wasn't looking. Happy anniversary." He motioned to the gentleman to ring up the purchase, because Sarah would be wearing it out of the store.

"Sweetheart, this is so gorgeous. Thank you," she said, sharing a deep kiss with him. She turned to the fellow, as John signed the MasterCard slip. "You made this?"

"I did," he said proudly. "I wish you should wear it in good health."

"I will. I truly will, thank you," she replied. "Thank you again, John." She was beaming, her right hand against the charm for a moment. They didn't even try to resist sharing one more kiss, before they picked up all their packages and made their way to the door.

As they left, the craftsman called after them, "Don't forget! I do engagement and wedding rings, too!"

O0O

Almost a block down the street, a garish arrangement of red and green balloons floated near the sidewalk, anchored to a sign advertising a pre-holiday sale. The store's windows were filled with motion; a huge racetrack took up an entire display on one side, Formula One cars in a dead heat zooming toward the finish line.

"I'm glad they're open, because I still need to get something for Ben," John said, remembering he couldn't face his nephew without adding a little more to his collection. "I have no idea what he has now, but he can always come in and trade it for something else."

"Does he collect a certain type of car, like NASCAR models or Hot Wheels?" Sarah asked, following him inside. They wandered toward the back of the store where glass cases held all types of vehicles, from radio-controlled Jeeps to Matchbox classics in mint condition cases, with practically everything in between.

"He prefers cars with a sense of history to them," John answered, thinking of the last one he'd brought Ben – a yellow 1964 Volkswagen Beetle, much like the one he'd had, complete with a tiny 'Make Love, Not War' sticker on the rear engine cover. "This one has promise." He pointed to a Jaguar JT5, the model styled on the five-speed type used by Team Jaguar Racing. "What do you think? Would this appease a discerning car-crazy six year old?"

"It's a hot-looking Jag, a definite possibility, John," Sarah agreed. "Are you open to suggestion?" She drew his attention to one of her personal favorites, the replica looking every bit as hot as its full-size counterpart. "If he doesn't already have one, it's what I'd choose. You said he's nuts about cars with history and they don't get much better than this."

"I've seen that one before. Give me a minute to think of exactly where," he replied. He knew it looked familiar, the body style in particular. He pushed the thought aside as one of the employees came over to help them.

"Would you like a closer look?" the gal behind the case asked. She knew a potential sale was in the works when she pulled out the car and settled it on a velvet display pad. "The doors open, the hood opens to show off a chromed high-performance engine, and it has chromed dual exhausts. It's durable enough to play with," she added, "in case he'd like to take it outdoors."

"Handsome rendition," John said, almost whistling appreciatively. "What's the scale?" He reached down, ran a finger over the paint, admiring the detailing. "Incredible."

"It's a 1:18 scale, GT500 in the same Ertl Blue as the original. Everything that should be made of metal is, with real chrome." She coyly pushed the white price tag toward him, without turning it over to divulge the cost.

He narrowed his eyes for a moment, flipped the tag and tried to hide his disappointment. "Damn. It's a little close to Hanukkah to get him something this expensive," he decided. "I suppose I could buy it now and send it to him later."

Sarah heard him vacillating, which was never a good sign. "It's perfect," she decided. "We'll take it." She nodded to the young lady, letting her know it was okay to ring up the sale.

Munch looked at Zelman, his hands on his hips. "Oh, we will?" he challenged. "Since when?"

"Yes, we will," she said evenly, wishing he'd relax. "How about we give it to him now, then hit up FAO Schwartz for his Hanukkah present?" He could argue with her about the price, she'd allow him that much, but she wasn't letting him leave without the car. If he balked, she'd use her peculiar brand of logic to bring him around.

He made an effort to keep his voice low, his tone civil. "You saw the price. Are you insane?" he asked, unmoving. "He's six years old, not graduating from M.I.T." He knew Marianne would harm him if he brought Ben such an extravagant gift so close to the holidays. Bernie, on the other hand, would probably want to play with it almost as much as Ben.

"It's a little over fifty bucks, granted," Zelman began, pretending she was about to give him his way. Once she saw his body language loosen up, she went in for the kill. "How often do you get to see Ben's face light up right in front of you?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, realizing he'd been had. "My arm's going to break if you twist it any harder." He shrugged eloquently, sure it was useless to remind Sarah he wasn't supposed to spoil his nephew quite as much as she wanted.

"Neither of us are cash machines, but we can make this work," she reasoned. "Count me in for half. It gets him the toy he'll love and it makes me feel a lot less guilty over meeting him empty-handed," she said happily. There, it was done. She handed over her Visa card, threw John a quick wink and was determined to feign innocence if he tried to talk her out of it.

"Since you put it that way, I'm in," he decided. John saw a sign advertising free wrap for any item over thirty-five dollars, thinking if they were going to give Ben something so special, they should go all the way. "Could you gift wrap it for us?"

"Sure, no problem," she said, giving Zelman the sales slip for her signature. "Be right back."

"We're doing the right thing, John," Sarah assured him. "Trust me." She put away her card and copy of the receipt, feeling much better about tomorrow.

"I'm sure we are, sweetie," he agreed. "As long as Marianne and Bernie think so, too." He took another look into the display case, eyeing one model critically. "See this one, without the stripes? I remember where I saw it before."

"Where?" She recognized the one he was talking about, it having been her second choice if they hadn't been able to buy one in Ertl Blue. "You mean a model or an actual car to drive?"

"The car itself. There used to be photos of one on Meldrick Lewis' desk," he explained. "He used to carry around a picture in his pocket of the engine." Back then, Munch marveled at the way Meldrick would show everyone the photo of a rebuilt, non-chromed engine, in dire need of being steam cleaned, as if the collection of parts were his own flesh and blood.

"He actually has the car? Is it drivable?" Sarah was incredulous. It wasn't every day someone managed to restore such a legendary racing machine.

John almost winced at the memory. "I wouldn't go so far as to call it a car…yet. But the last time I saw him, he has pieces of one in his garage – in red."

"How long ago?" Zelman was more than curious now. She wanted to see it for herself.

"It hurts me to say, I haven't paid him a social call in a couple of years." John raised his brows, considering the possibility he could be finished restoring it by now. "Depending on when we have to start back to New York on Saturday, we might go check it out. Meldrick's a funny guy, definitely a character. You'd like him."

"Anybody who's willing to bring a Shelby back to life is already a friend, in my book."

Hearing her say that was all it took for John to make up his mind. He thanked the gal who handed over the brightly-wrapped box, further protected by a gift bag. As they turned to leave, he softly said, "Then we'll stop by. If he's home, you'll meet a new friend. He's one of my closest, despite his quirks."

She laughed softly. "Quirks? Oh, I think I can handle almost anyone's quirks, these days."

"This is very serious stuff, sweetie," John replied. "This is a guy who got divorced over his favorite painting." He saw her open her mouth to reply. "Before you say anything, the painting is on velvet."

At that point, Sarah truly couldn't find the words to respond.

They left the toy store, Munch feeling particularly delighted in finding what he hoped was exactly the right addition to Ben's collection of cars. He and Zelman ambled in the general direction of the car, more than ready to be unencumbered after stashing everything in the trunk.

Before long, they managed just that, their arms around each other as he looked into her eyes. "We still have plans," he said, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"We do? What might those plans be?" she asked, taking his hands in hers. "Coffee at the little bakery we passed?"

"Something better." He could feel her searching his gaze for any hint of a clue.

"Coffee and Linzer cookies?" she asked hopefully, remembering how much she and her sister adored raspberry Linzers, fresh from the cooling racks, enjoyed with a hot cup of strong coffee.

"You're completely off the mark, sweetie," he replied, amused, unwilling to answer her question. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

"Sure. Which way?" Sarah hoped their foray would terminate in a place where they could sit and talk for a while, since her knees were starting to ache in ways she could no longer ignore. She'd been surreptitiously keeping watch, too, in case she needed to encourage John to take a break. Energized by being around his family, he seemed impervious to the all too frequent discomfort which sometimes made him walk with a slight limp.

Hand in hand once more, they made their way in the opposite direction from before, passing the eclectic intermix of clubs, pubs and bars. Three blocks down, they turned the corner to walk down a quieter section of the Pointe, off the beaten path. "Almost there," John said, answering her unvoiced question, as Sarah gave his hand a gentle squeeze in reply. "Not much farther, I promise."

Three doors ahead, a green and white striped awning stretched over poinsettia-filled flower boxes made of fresh white pickets, gaily swagged with multicolored lights. John opened an ornate iron gate, upon which a sign in carefully hand-written script announced "Esprit de Provence."

They entered a flagstone courtyard filled with topiary bedecked in small white twinkling lights, a set of French doors gave entrance to a dining room with plaster washed in shades of deep gold. The frescoed hues gave the interior a subtle glow, accentuated by dark walnut furniture, china, crystal and silver. Low lighting emanated from almost imperceptible soffits, the ambience further illuminated by candlelight on each table.

Before they approached the maitre d', Sarah whispered in John's ear. "Sweetheart, if I knew you wanted to have dinner here, I would have dressed for it." While the restaurant was populated by only three or four couples, none of them in what could be considered holiday finery, she still felt a bit self-conscious.

"It's not an issue here," he replied. "We're not in Manhattan, babe, don't worry." He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as they approached the podium.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle et monsieur," the slightly heavyset gentleman greeted them. His inviting smile crinkled from beneath his expertly trimmed black mustache, as he picked up two leather-bound menus and a wine list.

"Bonjour," they replied, as Sarah tried not to blush. She realized John had planned it all along – a dinner to rival the first 'real' date they'd had last year, at a tiny bistro in Manhattan with impeccable cuisine, a memorable bottle of wine, luscious dessert, all followed by the best sex she'd ever experienced with a new lover.

Munch easily conversed in French with the fellow, as Zelman tried to follow along as best she could. He was intentionally pausing, to give her the opportunity to catch as much of the conversation as possible. He requested for a table for two, out of the way, yet in proximity to the fireplace which crackled invitingly.

He led them to a semi-secluded table, close enough to enjoy the fire but not feel excessively warmed by it. While they could be easily seen by their server, they would enjoy as much privacy as they wished. He held Sarah's chair as she sat down, pleased as she said, "Merci, monsieur."

She accepted a menu, listening as the fellow asked John if it was a special occasion. He replied it was their first anniversary, a phrase she recognized immediately with a shy smile.

"Ah, then congratulations are in order," the maitre d' said, seeing the relief in Sarah's gaze as he spoke English at last. "Your server with be with you in a moment." He walked off in the direction of the bar, as they looked at each other over the top of their menus.

"When did you plan this lovely little surprise?" she asked, beginning to relax and look around a bit. She had no idea he'd even contemplated a repeat of their first date, considering they had come to Pikesville to celebrate Thanksgiving, not their anniversary.

"The last time I spoke with Uncle Andrew," he replied. "He called about five days before we left, to break the news he wouldn't be here this year." John missed his uncle terribly, too many of their conversations over cell phones rather than face-to-face as they were in years past. "I really hoped you'd be able to meet him. He's an incredibly fascinating man."

She felt a pang of regret as well. "Why won't he be here? Is he okay?"

"He's fine," John replied. "He can't be here because he's in Paris by now, with a lady friend of his. She lives in the same retirement community in West Palm Beach; they've been an item for a couple of years," he explained. "Word on the family rumor mill is that he's going to propose at the Eiffel Tower."

She grinned, almost happier he'd decided to follow his heart and spirit his girlfriend away to France. "Wow… Go, Andrew! I guess he's the one you speak with in French, when you're on your cell phone." Sarah tried not to eavesdrop on John when he was on the roof, having a private conversation. Months ago, she'd idly wondered if it was a woman he spoke with, since it was in a language she knew too little of to fully translate. Rather than confront him, she'd decided not to be jealous – especially since there were times it sounded like he was speaking with a French tutor.

"Yes, he's the one, unless you count two out of three of my mistresses," John replied. He chuckled as he felt Sarah kick him gently. "Seriously, Uncle Andrew used to help me with high school French, since he's considerably more fluent in it than I am. However, the more we talk, the better I become." His expression changed from a bit melancholy to almost wistful. "Still… I miss him and wish he'd have decided to bring his gal for turkey and all the trimmings. He's such a funny guy, despite all he's been through. I can tell you this," he enthused, "when you do finally meet him, you'll love him as much as I do."

The waiter arrived, John ordered their favorite aperitif as well as asked for a bit more time to peruse the menu. "Will you be upset if I order escargot as an appetizer?" he asked. "It's in puff pastry, with plenty of garlic." He looked at her over the top of his lenses, a sly smile on his face. "I'll even share with you, if you want."

Sarah laughed, knowing he could never persuade her to eat snails, no matter how disguised they were by garlic butter, hidden in the delicate folds of French pastry. "It won't bother me at all," she replied. "I won't even ask you to share." She knew he was being sarcastic, because they both knew snails were treyfe.

"I don't understand how snails can't be kosher, when some species of locust are. Both of them crawl through foliage, even though I know snails have been farmed domestically for ages. Keeping kosher has never made any sense to me," he asserted. "The health reasons don't make sense anymore, since refrigeration shoots down the argument about rancid shellfish." He shrugged, stopping himself before he got into a full-fledged rant about what he considered culinary insanity.

"You have a good point," she conceded, "Staying as kosher as I can works for me, that's all. I'm certainly not missing out, when it comes to escargot." She nodded to the waiter as he served their Kir Cocktails, the rich raspberry cordial deep purple at the bottom of a tulip-shaped flute filled with brut champagne. "L'Chayim," she said, as he did, the two of them carefully clinking their glasses. "I take it you're thinking about the scallops?"

"I am, but it's not something I could share," he admitted. They often ordered dishes both could partake of, giving them a chance to try more of a restaurant's specialties in one visit.

"Go ahead and splurge, sweetheart. You don't have to share all the time," she reminded him. "If you want some of my duck confit, you can still have a bite or two." Close enough to overhear, the waiter came over and they ordered.

"I think a bottle of wine is called for; after all, we are celebrating." On impulse, John picked up the wine list, ordering a bottle of crisp Chenin Blanc of a respectable vintage from the Loire valley. He looked to Sarah, buoyed when she shook her head yes.

They sat across from each other, comfortable in the near-silence broken only by the soft classical music heard overhead. It was a Jean-Baptiste Breval piece, one of his more conventional cello duets. They listened for what seemed quite a while, both trying to relax. The table was small and their knees almost touched. John tapped Sarah's foot with his, concerned she didn't respond in kind. "Babe, what's on your mind? Tomorrow?"

"Yes. I was thinking this is the calm before the storm," she admitted. "I'm looking forward to meeting everyone, but it's still considered a huge step from a relationship standpoint." She forced a subtle smile, mentally assuring herself it would all work out somehow.

"None of my family is going to bite," John replied. "At least, not if they're properly fed."

She gave him a genuine smile, glad his jokes always made her mood brighten. "I think there's going to be plenty of food for everyone, unless they all eat like you do," she teased. She looked up as the waiter brought John an elegant plate of escargot, garnished with a small mound of marinated, shredded root vegetables. The dish was so well presented, for a moment Sarah was able to forget he was about to eat creatures she used to pluck from her mother's flowerbeds.

Munch almost envied her the salad she'd ordered, the baby lettuces arranged on a plate with thin pieces of carrot, zucchini, sweet yellow pepper, purple onion and heirloom tomatoes. The light vinaigrette was scented with fresh tarragon and a hint of dill. "They get huge points for presentation," he said. "How is it?"

"Equally as good as Le Bistro's house salad," she replied. "Heavenly."

Their Kir Cocktails finished, the sommelier came with the wine John requested. With a flourish, it was presented to make sure it was what he'd asked for, then uncorked with the usual amount of Gaullic ceremony. A small amount was poured for his approval; he admired the wine's bouquet and took a sip. "It's acceptable." The gentleman poured a glass for Sarah, then for John, before leaving the bottle on the table.

They raised their glasses once more, silently this time. "I'm not the only one who has something on their mind. You seem a little pensive this evening, sweetheart. Everything okay?" Sarah wasn't sure if he was thinking about last year, tomorrow, or an entirely different issue altogether.

"I was thinking about Uncle Andrew, wondering if he's proposed to his canasta partner yet." The expression on his face made it clear he was upset he'd missed a chance to see Andrew, yet he was trying to be happy for him. It had been too long since Andrew Munch had the love of a beautiful woman, his wife having passed away seven years ago after a long battle with cancer. "You have to understand, most Munch marriages have some sort of tragedy attached to them. After Aunt Beth died, we all wondered if Uncle Andrew would be next. I want him to live out the rest of his days with Susan, the two of them watching Florida sunsets together and traveling to France as often as they want."

"Maybe someone will have heard from him and let everyone know tomorrow," Sarah said, in hopes Ruthie had an update. "Not to worry, the males in the Munch family are irresistible, probably even more so while in Paris. They could be in a small chateau right now, planning their wedding."

"Certainly a nice thought," he agreed, as their meals arrived. "I'm glad he didn't give up on life after Aunt Beth was taken from him. They worshipped each other." His eyes were downcast, not looking at his plate of expertly sautéed scallops drizzled with orange-infused beurre blanc sauce, but in momentary reflection on his uncle's life. "I want him to be happy, Sarah. One of these days, I'll explain why it's so important to me."

"When you're ready to talk about it, I'm more than ready to listen." She studied his face, meeting his gaze when he finally raised his head. "In the meantime, your scallops are calling." She cut a couple of bites from her duck confit, put them on her bread plate along with a dab of brandied sour cherry sauce, then passed it to him. "Superb choice of wine, by the way."

"Thank you, sweetie," he replied. After a few bites of dinner, his mood seemed to improve, coaxed along by generous sips of Chenin Blanc. "I didn't mean to dampen the mood. After all, we've been together for over a year, with very little feuding and more happiness than I thought I was entitled to." He gazed at her with a slight smile at the corners of his mouth, capturing her foot between his beneath the table.

"I'm not sure I believed in happiness until you and I hooked up," she admitted, pretending to try and pull her foot from his clinch. "I'd cornered the market on abject loneliness, as much as you did on abject misery. I wonder who'll take over for us?"

He laughed softly, toying with the baby vegetables on his plate. "There are plenty of people out there competing for the job," he replied. "I'm grateful we no longer have to carry our respective burdens." John took a few more bites, easily finishing off his scallops before his attention turned to the sample of duck.

"John?" Sarah took a sip of wine, almost finished with her meal.

Munch looked up, then placed his cutlery on the plate. "Hmmm?"

"I love you." It was always such a simple, honest declaration, devoid of the syrupy sweetness of his ex-wives and girlfriends. With Sarah, it was said as easily as if she'd asked what time it was; the simplicity almost belied the intensity of her ardor.

"I love you, too," he replied. "Even though I don't say it nearly as much as I should." He felt guilty at times, but she'd explained to him before that his actions spoke louder than words. He knew she didn't crave those three little words, because she wasn't openly emotional and never expected him to be, either. To compensate, he always found ways to remind her every day how much he appreciated her, respected her and loved her.

"You say it often enough," she insisted. "You know what else I'd love?" Beneath the table, she rubbed her leg against his, watching as he blushed.

He looked at her longingly, feeling his frustration build. "Mom's rule. The situation sucks," he griped, knowing full well what he'd love. He wanted nothing better than to take her somewhere – anywhere – to a place where they could repeat what they'd done last year, after a fine French meal and bottle of wine.

"I was thinking of chocolate mousse."

"Liar," he retorted, as they both laughed. She may have been thinking of bittersweet chocolate in whipped cream, but he knew she was sympathizing with him because they wanted each other with white-hot desire. Unfortunately, Baltimore and its environs were far too dangerous to allow them to park in a secluded place, like a couple of teenagers.

He motioned to the waiter, ordered a single dish of chocolate mousse for them to share, as well as Pernod for each. They lingered over dessert, aware the only place they could go was back to his mother's. She fed him spoonfuls of mousse as he returned the favor, both of them taking their time. When they finally glanced around, they were the only patrons in the restaurant, despite the hour.

The wine finished, the liqueur gone, John paid the bill and left a handsome tip. He and Sarah walked back to the car, holding hands and window-shopping as they went.

In the car, they spontaneously leaned over into a leisurely kiss. "Thank you for dinner," Sarah said, her hand against his cheek. "It was wonderful."

"It was delicious," he corrected. _"You're_ wonderful. I wish I could show you exactly how much." He kissed her once more, reminding himself next year they'd stay at the Marriott.

O0O

Not long after arriving 'home,' they got ready for bed and slipped between the sheets, neither wanting to turn out the bedside lamp and sleep. Wordlessly, Sarah arose; her curiosity sent her to the ornate cedar trunk at the foot of the bed. She opened it, rewarded with a stack of extra bedding, a collection of soft comforters and quilts. She looked at John and smiled, as he too was lured by the possibilities.

Once Zelman pulled out a large comforter and spread it on the floor next to the bed, Munch knew exactly what she had in mind. He unfolded a couple of thick quilts, as the two of them worked silently to make the equivalent of a double-sized sleeping bag on the floor. John moved the pillows down, the makeshift bed reminding him of a futon, it was that comfortable.

Sarah turned off the bedside lamp, stretched out beside him and cuddled close as they shared a whispered conversation. "Technically, we're not in your mom's bed," she said, ever so slightly proud she'd devised a work-around.

"You're pretty resourceful for someone who's never been to summer camp," he quipped, kissing her lightly. "Why the sudden change of heart? This is still Mom's room." He mentally winced at his choice of words. What in the hell was he thinking, giving her an excuse for second thoughts when obviously she had done this for him.

"You know why. Because of today… The trip to those little shops, the impromptu anniversary celebration…everything." She slowly pulled off her sleep shirt, tugging gently at his pajama top. "Most of all, because I know how much you've wanted this," she added softly.

He pulled off his scrubs, still surprised she'd given in. "You don't have to do this because we went to Esprit de Provence," he teased.

"I've never done a man for the sake of an expensive dinner and I never will," she shot back, knowing he didn't intend it as an insult. "It's for the meaning behind it." Sarah slapped him lightly on the backside as he stifled a yelp. "For even thinking I'd put out for a dish of chocolate mousse, you get to freeze your handsome ass off and go get the Trojans."

"Only if you warm me up when I get back." John went to his pilot bag and dug deeply, his hand against the box almost right away. He opened it, pulled out a single packet, then carefully buried the rest of them in the bottom of his bag. When he returned to Sarah's side, he pressed his cold feet against her as she tried not to gasp at the sudden shock. "As I was saying," he began, "now you get to warm me up."

"Oh, I think I can manage," she replied, her lips against his as they kissed deeply. "I'm not sure we can manage to be quiet enough, though, even here on the floor."

While he realized neither of them were particularly screamers, they did tend to get a little on the loud side from time to time, even though both were apartment-dwellers who tried to keep their romantic lives concealed from their neighbors' hearing. He didn't want to admit it to Sarah, but she'd been right – his mother would hear them unless they were almost silent. He felt her warm touch on his bare skin, his body already responding to the silky feel of her pressed firmly against him.

"We can be quiet," he assured her. "The very thought of Mom hearing us is enough to strengthen my resolve," he added lightly. "All I ask is one thing."

"Anything," Sarah replied, both of them snuggled close.

"I don't want to rush this," he said. "I want us to take our time." All too often lately, their lovemaking was hurried in the darkness between shifts, a needed release to counter the pressures of 'The Job."

Over the past two months, with the proliferation of sex crimes, their liaisons had been brief, 'a quick schtupp before sleep' as Sarah called it. Despite the fact both had to awaken early the next morning, they took their time and thoroughly made up for weeks of what John referred to as 'fast-food sex.'

…to be continued…


	8. Chapter 8

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Eight

John awoke early to the sounds of his mother's work in the kitchen. The whiff of cinnamon rolls wafted in as he opened the bedroom door. Still in his black scrubs, feet clad in slippers, he went to help his mother lift the bird into the oven. Poultry seasoning mingled with the scent of cinnamon when he walked into the kitchen. Ruth Munch was up to her elbows in stuffing, pushing it firmly into the self-basting turkey taking up almost every inch of space in her largest roasting pan.

"Need an extra hand taming the turkey?" John asked, as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Thanks, Johnny, but this is the easiest part for me," she replied. "Cinnamon rolls are on the table. Nothing special, just some of those Pillsbury rolls from the supermarket." She forced in the last of the stuffing, then laced the cavity closed with the precision of a surgeon. "Let me clean myself off, before you heft this into the oven. Be sure you use mitts, because the oven's been preheated." She washed from her elbows down with Softsoap, the fragrant liquid not quite disguising the scent of sage, thyme, onion and celery. "It's all yours."

"You won't say that when it's finished. At that point you'll make me share it with everyone," he quipped, opening the oven door to pull out the lower rack. He felt like he was fumbling in her bulky silver oven mitts, but it was better than scorching himself on hot metal. He took the roaster in both hands, tested its weight and easily transferred it to its rightful home. When he saw it next, it would be browned, juicy, and remind him no one made a Thanksgiving dinner better than his mother.

Ruth poured herself a cup of Folger's and sat down, reaching for a cinnamon roll. "I have news." John took a seat, his curious expression amusing her. "When I checked my e-mail this morning, one of the subject lines was, 'She said yes.' It was all in capital letters, followed by about half a dozen exclamation points." Her smile was wide as she quipped, "Think your Uncle Andrew is living on the happy side of life?"

John was momentarily speechless, trying to imagine how it had all played out. "I hope I can make it to the wedding, since that's one I don't want to miss. You have no idea how glad I am that Susan said yes." He took an appreciative bite of sweet roll, silently reveling in the fact it was still warm from the oven. "It's a relief to know they're going to be together. He's needed someone in his life for a long time now."

"There was no doubt in my mind, Johnny," she replied. "Andrew is every bit as handsome and charming as your dad was. After so much time together, Susan would have been meshugge to rebuff him – candlelight, gourmet food, a bottle of fine bubbly. Not to mention watching the Eiffel Tower at sunset, until its lights came on." She let out a happy sigh, wishing Johnny would plan something very similar for Sarah.

"Maybe I'll get an e-mail like that from you someday," she said hopefully.

"Don't rule it out," he quipped. "Uncle Andrew may yet be able to say he's started a family tradition." John knew Sarah had never been to Europe as her sister had, despite her having a passport for mostly government travel. Of course, he hadn't been 'across the pond' either and was often torn between visiting France with his uncle, or exploring part of his family's Romanian roots.

"Speaking of Sarah, where is she? Still asleep, I hope." She took a sip of her coffee, wondering if she could have one more roll. Ruth Munch was crazy about iced pastries, especially ones with spices or chocolate – a love she'd instilled in her sons.

"I left her sacked out, since we were out a little later than planned last night," John explained. "We had a spontaneous anniversary dinner at Pikesville Point's French restaurant. When we came home, we weren't sleepy but we didn't want to turn on the TV, in case it would wake you." He drained his coffee mug, still feeling tired from his and Sarah's surreptitious sexual encounter before they finally slept.

"You wouldn't have bothered me," Ruth replied. "So, you took her to the Provence place? How romantic! Did she enjoy?"

John grinned at his mother's occasional Yiddish grammar. "She loved it. We had a great time yesterday, Mom." He took a second roll from the plate, wondering if he should reserve a couple for Zelman. "We did some shopping, wandered around, had a very romantic dinner and celebrated having been together for a little over a year."

"May the two of you enjoy many more," Ruth said, deeply satisfied he and Sarah made time to be together. "Now that the turkey's been started, you should go back to bed for an hour or two. It's only six o'clock, Johnny. Why don't I knock on your door at eight? You and Sarah have plenty of time to have some coffee, a little breakfast." She heard a sharp thump against the door, more than ready to browse the early morning edition of The Baltimore Sun. "Maybe after, you both could lend me a hand with a couple things, then get ready when you want."

"It's a tempting thought," he agreed, knowing it would be a long day.

"You look tired," she said, concerned as she placed her hand over his. "Are you okay?"

He turned his palm upward, taking her hand in his. "I'm fine, Mom, don't worry. A little sleepy, more than tired," he admitted. "I think I'll take you up on those couple hours. Knock loud, you know I'm a fairly deep sleeper."

John took his half-empty coffee mug to the sink before making his way back to the bedroom. For a long moment, he watched Sarah as she slept, a peaceful expression on her face. Careful not to wake her, he slipped back beneath the covers and snuggled against her, almost immediately asleep again as he draped an arm protectively around her waist.

O0O

A little over two hours later, Ruth knocked on the bedroom door, softly at first as she listened for any hint of John or Sarah waking. After a moment, she knocked louder, listened again and still heard nothing. She slowly opened the door, smiling at the sight of them sleeping so close together.

She quietly walked over to Sarah's side of the bed, standing so she'd face her son when he awakened. "Johnny? Time to wake up," she said softly. "You wanted to get up at eight, remember?" It was now as it had been when he was a boy; she'd talk to him softly until he eventually woke up, rather than give him a gentle shake as his father used to do.

He pulled himself away from a dream, waking to the sound of his mother's voice. "I'm awake, Mom… Thanks. I guess I didn't hear you knock." John slept deeply when he was at his mother's, no threat of a ringing cell phone summoning him to a crime scene.

She saw Zelman's eyes open slowly, as she blinked in the morning light. "Good morning, Sarah. Did you sleep well?" she asked, hoping she hadn't intruded by walking in and waking them both.

"I did, Mom, thanks," she replied, not realizing her choice of words. The word felt so natural, Sarah didn't think twice about it.

John feigned a look of mild surprise at Sarah's choice of words, as Ruth sat down on the edge of the bed. He knew how much it meant to his mother, but the real decision to continue calling her that was up to Zelman.

"You called me 'Mom,'" Ruth said, her voice filled with emotion. "Sarah, you have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you call me that."

Sarah blushed slightly, glad it had happened spontaneously, happier still it felt so normal. "I'm glad you don't mind. I said it before I could even think about it." She was about to ask permission, immediately realizing it wasn't necessary.

"I hope you'll continue to call me 'Mom,' as well as to think of me that way. I know your mother is in Chicago, which is so far away…" Ruth knew it was a comfort for John and Bernie to still have their mother, no farther away than a short flight in her eldest son's case. She couldn't fathom how Zelman coped with having her mother halfway across the country. All the independence in the world couldn't compensate for a mother's love, something a call on a cell-phone would never be able to replicate.

"Maybe I can be your mom on this coast?" she offered hopefully, watching as her son propped himself up on one elbow to take in the conversation. Her dark eyes had misted over as she lowered her gaze for a moment.

Sarah reached out, took Ruth's hand and held it for a long moment, a gentle smile on both their faces. "I consider myself fortunate to have two moms now," Sarah replied. "It has nothing to do with distance, Mom. I can't thank you enough for considering me part of your family. It means a lot to me."

Ruth bent forward and kissed Sarah on the cheek, doing it as much out of love as to hide the tears which slipped from her eyes. "If Johnny doesn't marry you, he's in such big trouble," she quipped, deflecting the deeper emotions of the moment with humor.

"That much trouble, I wouldn't want," John said, winking at them both. He sat up, stretched, put on his glasses and gave a subtle nod toward the door. His mother knew it was her cue to let them start their day.

She gave Sarah's hand a squeeze and stood. "I'll leave you two to finish waking up."

"I think it's time John and I dressed, got some coffee into us, then helped you with last-minute chores," Zelman decided, reaching for her glasses.

"Fresh coffee's brewing, cinnamon rolls are on the kitchen table. Once you've had breakfast, I could use an extra hand or two. I'm glad you don't mind," Ruth said warmly. "See you both in a little while." She left, closing the door behind her.

"You made my mother tear up," John said, wrapping his arms around Sarah. "It doesn't happen very often." He kissed the top of her head, moving down to her cheek and finally to her lips. "Not even Gwen called her 'Mom,' no matter how much she tried to encourage it," he explained. "For you to call her that so soon, without any coaching, she'll be on cloud nine all day at least."

"I'm glad. For a minute there, I wasn't sure if I'd made the biggest goof of the entire trip." She pushed the covers back, both of them standing up to stretch. "I really do love your mom, John."

"Of course you do, babe. After all, she brought me into this world," he replied.

O0O

After both had showered, Munch and Zelman enjoyed their fill of coffee and pastry as they discussed with Ruthie what needed to be done before family and guests began to arrive. Vacuuming was one of the things Ruth intended to do, the task quickly appropriated by John and Sarah. John moved things out of the way as Sarah pushed the Eureka thoroughly around each room.

From there, they went outside to spruce things up. John swept leaves from the driveway with a shop broom, while Sarah swept and tidied the front porch and walk. He knew Bernie would come over in about half an hour to help bring tables inside, Marianne helping to set up the buffet area with Sarah ready to assist.

Zelman surrendered her broom to John, who put them away, careful to keep Sarah from walking into the garage. As she approached, he rushed to leave and closed the side door firmly behind him. "Let's go inside and change clothes, shall we?"

"Sounds good to me," she replied, more than ready to rid herself of the thin film of grit she felt against her skin.

They freshened up, John coming out of the bathroom to open his fold-over bag, which hung in his mother's closet. In a pair of gray boxer briefs, a black undershirt and black socks, he turned to watch Sarah dress. She didn't realize he was staring as she slipped into ecru lace lingerie, making him wish for a moment they were back in Manhattan.

He reluctantly turned his attention elsewhere to dress in his charcoal gray suit with subtle, narrow pinstripes, one of several suits he knew Sarah loved to see him wear. His choice of shirt and tie were easy after yesterday's shopping, the shade and slight shimmer of the material looked sharp and stylish against his suit. The soft material of the shirt felt good to him.

Sarah decided on a darker version of the silver gray suit she'd arrived in, coupled with a cobalt blue blouse she'd bought for the occasion. As she fiddled with putting in small sapphire earrings, she caught sight of John. An appreciative whistle escaped her lips; with his tie still draped around his neck, she too wished they were home. "You're weakening my resolve, sweetheart," she said, motioning for him to hook the clasp on the necklace he'd bought her.

"Speak for yourself," he replied, fastening it. "You've heard the expression, 'You look good enough to eat,' haven't you?" He punctuated his question with a deep kiss, the two of them close enough to feel each other's heat.

"I'm familiar with it, yes," she said. "I could say the same for you." She traced her finger down one of side of his shirt collar, the muted sheen of the material almost silky beneath her touch. She saw his suit coat draped on the bed, the pinstripes having their usual effect on her even though he had only slipped into his slacks. "This is going to be a very long day," she said with a wicked grin. She reluctantly left him to tie his tight half-Windsor knot, while she slipped into low-heeled gray pumps, forsaking her usual mid-calf black boots.

"You know why no one ever every gets laid on Thanksgiving?" he asked, feigning earnestness.

"No. Why?" She wondered if she should break out her makeup bag, but decided everyone should meet her without benefit of potions or powders. She never had been fond of the feel of artificial wizardry on her skin, alchemy for the sake of 'beauty' simply wasn't her thing.

"Too many coats on the bed," he deadpanned, pleased she laughed at a joke she'd probably heard a million times before. "That was supposed to break the tension, by the way." He took their Glocks from the lockbox, both of them wearing their firearms as casually as others wore a watch.

"Whose tension, though – yours or mine?" she retorted, trying to quell the butterflies in her stomach. She ran a brush through her hair, for once not caring about the somewhat plentiful strands of silver. Sarah longed to run her hands through John's salt and pepper mane, but he was busy trying to comb it into place.

"Ours," he said. "After all, we're about to be buffeted by questions about our relationship." They embraced once more, out of nervousness more than love at that moment.

"We're tough, we can take it," Sarah said, a genuinely happy expression on her face.

"Like I said yesterday, I'm glad you feel that way. I'd feel bad if you were genuinely having misgivings." He kissed her once more, lightly, as he heard his mother knock gently on the bedroom door. "Come in, Mom. We're dressed, it's okay."

Ruth opened the door cautiously, pleased to see them in an amorous clinch. "You both look so gorgeous! Look at the two of you!" She moved toward them as John gestured for her to come closer.

The 'kids' caught Ruthie in a tight hug as she laughed. "We've come up with a way to survive all the questions," John said. "We have a mantra: 'They mean well.'"

"Of course they do," his mother agreed. "Otherwise, why ask the questions? Keep in mind, it's because they're interested." She had put down her cleaning caddy as she'd come into the bedroom. "I should have asked you this before you both came in from sprucing up the front of the house… Would you both mind unfolding the tables outside, maybe giving them a quick wipe down before they're brought in?"

"We can do that, can't we, babe?" John asked.

"No problem," Sarah agreed.

"Thank you." She hugged her son before giving Zelman a friendly squeeze. "This is going to be a very good day, I can tell already," Ruthie decided, leaving them to their task.

It wasn't long before they'd righted the tables, John double-checking to make sure the hinges had fastened firmly at each leg. Sarah slipped on Ruthie's yellow latex gloves, reached for the bottle of cleaner and began giving each six-foot span of composite a once-over.

She was so deeply into her work, she didn't hear John go inside once a silver Ford Explorer pulled quietly into the driveway.

O0O

"Uncle John!"

"Ben!" He bent down, picked up his favorite nephew and groaned theatrically. "Hey, squirt, you're getting big… It's harder to lift you now, you're so tall." Munch shifted the six year old around, holding him like a sack of potatoes as they both laughed.

Marianne grinned at the sight of them, wishing John lived closer or could visit more often. Ben wasn't the only family member who missed him. "Johnny, would you mind keeping an eye on Ben, while we bring in some things from the car?"

He nodded, raising and lowering Ben as if to estimate his weight. "I think I could manage well enough," he replied, as Marianne went off to help Bernie bring things inside. He looked down at the dark-haired, dark-eyed spitting image of most of the males in his family. "How have you been, kiddo? At the rate you're going, you'll be taller than me when you grow up."

"I got three A-plusses in school last week," he said proudly. "Daddy took us out for ice cream to celebrate!"

"Good for you, Ben – I've always known you're very smart. You and I should celebrate, too," he decided, lowering him carefully to the floor. "Would you like to go to McDonald's while I'm here?" He straightened his suit and tie, watching with pride as his nephew mimicked his actions to the letter.

"Mommy said McDonald's is for lazy people," Ben replied. "Could we have pizza?" He knew his mother didn't want him eating junk, but he knew Uncle John would give him anything his heart – and stomach – desired. Bernie and Marianne ordered out for a veggie deluxe with extra cheese maybe once every six weeks or so.

"I think we could sneak out for a couple slices while I'm here, sure," he agreed. "But first you have to ask your mom." He tried not to smile as Ben made a face and sighed.

"Uncle John, if I ask, she'll say no," he told him. "If you ask, she always says yes." Ben Munch knew if he could convince John to make the suggestion, his mother would cave immediately.

"Then I guess I'll have to ask," he replied. "Since you want pizza, would you like to go to D'Angelo's for lunch tomorrow? If you want to share a double-pepperoni with me, we don't have to tell your mom." While Marianne made a half-hearted effort not to buy pork, she usually didn't restrict either Bernie or Ben from eating it when they went out. She couldn't help but cringe though, having been brought up by a mother who kept a kosher home.

"Could we go to Rossetti's instead? They have pitchers of root beer an' they're next to the Baskin Robbins for later." He enjoyed bargaining with his Uncle John. It was usually an easy deal to make, because they liked the same things. It was John who introduced Ben to the joys of pistachio ice cream, mushrooms on pizza, and peppered pastrami on rye with spicy mustard.

John knew how to turn their negotiations to his favor, however. "If I take you to Rossetti's, will you let me bring a friend?" He wasn't sure if Ben even knew about Sarah, nor how he would react when they met. The only one of his previous liaisons he was vaguely familiar with was Billie Lou, who chose to ignore him, silently enraging John.

"You have a friend here, Uncle John? Where?" Ben, in a moment of sudden shyness, looked around, safely shielded by John's long legs. "I don't see anyone."

He took Ben's hand in his as he carefully bent down. "I think she's in the backyard, cleaning off tables," he said quietly. "Her name is Sarah." He almost held his breath for a moment, wondering if his nephew was up for meeting her before everyone arrived.

Ben's thoughtful expression let his uncle know he was considering this turn of events. "Is she nice?" He looked him directly in the eye, expecting nothing less than an honest answer. He knew his Uncle John would never lie to him under any circumstances, nor make him do anything he didn't want to.

"She's very nice," he replied, with a note of seriousness in his tone. "She also likes cars almost as much as you do, Ben." John stood, held out his hand and waited. "C'mon, don't be shy." He leaned over, whispering in his ear. "Sarah's shy, too."

He looked up at John, puzzled. "Why is she shy?"

"Because she doesn't know everybody here, only me, your mom and dad, and Bubbe Ruthie," he explained. It was the truth in every sense; Sarah knew only immediate family and when she wasn't working, she was unmistakably shy at times. "When you meet her, ask her if she wants to play."

"Will she push me on the swing?" he asked, curious.

"If you hang on tight, she probably will." He knew Sarah wasn't obvious about it, but she loved kids. She listened to them, talked to them as thinking human beings and – despite the toll it took on her back and knees – she was sure to literally be on their level, in an effort to help them feel at ease around her.

"She's your friend, Uncle John?" Ben was a bit dubious of being introduced to yet another of his uncle's female 'friends,' because one of them had treated him badly.

"She is, Ben. I like her so much, I brought her here for you to meet," he replied. He knew it was the truth; if Ben didn't like Sarah, it would put an insurmountable crimp in their relationship. John would never be able to hide it from her and the rest of their time in Pikesville would be more than a little tense. "If you decide you don't like her, I'll understand. All I ask is, don't compare her to anyone else I've introduced you to, okay?"

"Okay, I won't." He stood next to his uncle, carefully thinking over the situation. Ben wondered if he should seek out his mother, in case she could tell him more about this new woman his uncle had brought home, or if he should show some trust. His Uncle John had never intentionally fibbed to him, he knew.

"Uncle John, I think I want to meet her," he finally decided, warily leading John toward the back door. They walked outside, immediately surrounded by the scent of citrus cleaner; both watched for a moment as Zelman gave the last table a wipe-down.

"Sarah?" the older of the two asked, almost hesitating.

She looked up, smiled and pulled off the Playtex gloves she'd been wearing. She draped them over the bottle of Orange-All, waiting.

John still held Ben's hand, hoping he wouldn't decide to bolt and run. "There's someone very important I'd like you to meet." He nodded approvingly as she knelt down. "This is my nephew, Ben Munch; Bernie and Marianne's son." John gave him an ever so slight nudge forward, happy it didn't take much to convince him to approach Zelman.

"It's nice to meet you, Ben," she said warmly, extending her hand. "Your Uncle John's told me a lot of good things about you."

He slowly shook Sarah's hand, looking her straight in the eye. "Hello," he said softly, unsure of what to say next.

"Ben, Sarah's a police like me," John mentioned, in hopes it would start his nephew talking.

"You're a cop like my Uncle John on the NYPD?" His expression was curious, now that he knew she and his uncle had something in common.

"Yes, I am. We work together at the police precinct." She glanced at John, hoping he'd catch the signal her knees were practically screaming. When she saw him raise his brows, she slowly stood, trying not to wince. "I should have brought you a hat."

"It's okay. Uncle John brought me one last year, with some stickers for my notebooks." He smiled, giving her an impression of what John must have looked like at that age. "Do you carry a gun, too?"

"I sure do, Ben," she admitted. Both adults followed him as he kicked through the leaves, clearing his own path to the picnic table, where he climbed up to stand on the tabletop.

"Where is it? Can I see it? Is it just like Uncle John's gun?" The ice was officially broken, John knew, as Ben peppered Sarah with questions as any other member of the Munch family would.

John was close enough to her he took the opportunity to wrap his arm around her waist. "What's the rule on kids seeing our carry?" she whispered in John's ear.

"It's fine," he replied quickly. "He's used to it."

"I won't take it out right now, Ben, but I'll show it to you." She opened her dark gray blazer, taking it off and handing it to John. "It's right here, all safe and sound in my holster. Can you see it?"

Ben nodded his approval, fascinated. "It is like Uncle John's! Last year, he took his gun out and showed it to me," he said. "He let me hold it."

"He did?" she asked, genuinely surprised when she realized he'd only been five years old last November. "Ben, that's pretty cool. Only big guys get to see a gun up close."

"He let me, because it didn't have bullets in it. He helped me put my finger on the trigger and everything!" He adeptly demonstrated squeezing a gun's trigger, rather than yanking back on it as most kids would do. "Uncle Andy said he shouldn't have done it," he informed her, as John's face reddened. "They got into a big fight about it."

Sarah managed not to laugh as she gave John a quick wink and repossessed her blazer. "Did he show you how to be safe when you're around guns?" She briefly toyed with the idea of taking the magazine out of her Glock, then letting him heft it, but she didn't want it to become an issue if Ben said anything to Andy. The last thing on earth she wanted was to be the source of a family feud.

"Uncle John made me promise and swear never to touch a gun, unless I was with him and he lets me touch it. Isn't that right?" He playfully jumped from the table as John caught him mid-flight.

"That's right, I did." He stepped away from the table and swung Ben around a couple of times as he squealed with laughter. "You're very smart to always remember, because it's extremely important." John eased him to his feet, knowing he was ready to play. "You can ask her, it's okay," he whispered to his nephew.

"Sarah, will you push me on the swing?" Ben asked.

"Sure! Lead the way…" She started after him, but John hesitated. "John? Coming along?"

"I'm going to get something out of our room," he replied. "What we got yesterday." He gestured toward the house as she followed Ben. "I'll be back in a minute or two."

Ben held tightly to the chains as he sat on the swing, his feet out in front of him as she gave him a firm push. "Okay, away you go!" she called out. He used the momentum to quickly get a rhythm going, taking him a little higher than she intended.

After he'd reached his ideal speed and height, he started to laugh. "Want to see if I can go higher?" Ben was eager to show off a bit, even though he knew his mother would have a fit if she saw him. With Zelman, he could test the limitations a little because she wouldn't say anything. Or so he thought.

"I think you're way up there already, Ben," she replied, a tinge of warning in her tone. "I wouldn't want you to get in trouble." She knew all about mothers and swing sets, having separately broken each of her pinky fingers when she was his age – thanks to horsing around on her favorite swing. "How's it feel to be up so high, Rocket Man?"

He laughed again and let out a whoop. "I wish I could swing all the way to the moon. Uncle John says the moon might be a spaceship, since it's not made of the same stuff this planet is," he insisted, keeping his momentum.

She was familiar with John's conspiracy theory regarding the moon, having given it serious contemplation when he first mentioned the possibility. On the other hand, she didn't want to be known as the person who filled Ben's head with unsubstantiated information before his teachers could impart their conventional wisdom. "I wish the moon was made of cheese," she replied, "especially cheddar. Then we'd never run out of grilled cheese sandwiches."

"Mozzarella, so we could always have enough for pizza," he countered.

"That's a good point. Pizza's great if you put mushrooms on it." She noticed he was slowing down a little, looking at her more now that she'd inadvertently mentioned a couple of his favorite foods.

"Are you going to be my Aunt Sarah?" he asked, getting straight to the point. He certainly carried the Munch genetic code for blunt interrogatives.

Zelman's mouth dropped open as she tried to recover, not having expected 'the question' from someone so young, so soon. "Uh… You need to ask your Uncle John about that, Ben," she said, somehow managing to keep her voice even. "Maybe when it's only the two of you together." Please, dear God, don't let him ask this again at the dinner table, she thought. She envisioned the entire room going silent if he did, until Ruthie decided to announce a wedding Sarah wasn't sure would happen.

"You're nicer than Aunt Billie was. She never wanted to play, 'cause her fingernails would get all messed up. She and Uncle John always used to fight about it when I was around." Even Ben, as small a child as he'd been then, realized McCoy had been a disingenuous high-maintenance piece of work who hadn't loved her then-husband much, if at all. "She didn't like me, I could tell. Uncle John always makes time to play with me when he's here," Ben continued, Zelman as his captive – and intensely interested – audience. "He treats me like I'm his kid, too, but even better. He brings me toys for 'just because.'"

"Yes, he does," John said, wrapping his arm around Sarah as he pulled her close for a kiss. "Sarah helped me pick this out for you, Ben." He held up a brightly wrapped box as his nephew's momentum on the swing slowed even more. "No jumping off, kiddo. Your mom will punish us both."

"You both got this for me?" he asked, taking the box from his uncle's outstretched hand.

"Yes, we did," he replied. "Would you like to open it now?"

"Sure! Is it for my collection?" Ben had Uncle John well trained when it came to his vast array of cars.

"You'll have to open it and see, but remember what I said about Sarah liking cars almost as much as you do." They watched intently as Ben ripped the gift-wrap from the box. His eyes widened as he saw the make and model. "It's a Shelby! A 1970 Ford Shelby Cobra!" John picked him up, the car held tightly in one hand, his other firmly hugging his uncle. "It's even my favorite color! Thank you, Uncle John."

"Sarah suggested a Cobra. I saw it in turtle blue. We thought you might like it," he said, winking at Zelman. He knew the name of the color, but loved to yank Ben's chain.

"It's called Ertl Blue, not turtle," he replied, with a mix of exasperation and seriousness directed at his uncle. Ben wiggled down from John's grasp, rushed to Sarah and she instinctively picked him up. "This is one of the fastest cars ever!" he informed them loudly, the enthusiasm in his voice undoubtedly echoing into the house. "I have a 1965 Mustang in red, but not a Cobra – this is great!" He pulled the car out of its display box to show off the detailing, down to the dual striped bodywork and metal flake paint. "Thank you, Aunt Sarah!" He fidgeted enough for her to put him down, then rushed off to show his mom and dad his latest toy.

Zelman swallowed hard, unable to believe what she'd heard. "Did he just call me – "

"Yes, he did. You did well choosing a Cobra, 'Aunt Sarah,'" John quipped. "All of this couldn't have turned out better if I'd paid him." He took her hand in his, steering her away from the picnic table.

"You coached him, John," she said, completely taken aback at what Ben had called her. "You did – you bribed him, or promised him something sinful and filled with twelve kinds of sugar, if he did your evil bidding."

"That was one hundred percent Ben, sweetie," he told her truthfully. "Don't be shocked if he says it again, either. Believe it or not, it took a lot of persuasion to get him to call Billie Lou 'Aunt Billie.'" Munch put his arm around her waist as they slowly walked toward the house. "If he calls you that at dinner, relax and roll with it, please? He's being himself around you. I'd like to encourage him."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities for that, John," she replied, smiling. "When Ruthie tells everyone we're getting married, I'll try not to drown face down in my chicken soup." They wrapped their arms around each other, kissing several times before Ben paged them inside.

"No rest for the weary, and I can guarantee we'll both be exhausted by the end of the day," John quipped. "Let's see where we're needed next, shall we?"

O0O

It didn't take long for several buffet and dining tables to be brought inside and arranged, leaving enough room for family and guests to mingle comfortably throughout the house before and after the meal. John and Bernie worked in tandem to set up folding chairs, making sure each one had been thoroughly dusted. Sarah and Marianne carefully spread tablecloths, arranged place settings, quickly folded napkins into fans, then added wine coasters, salt and pepper shakers and other necessities.

The buffet tables were adorned with small centerpieces of autumn flowers, trivets for hot dishes, bowls with ice for food needing to remain cold. All of this while Ruthie made her famous lump-meat crab cakes, while other appetizers warmed in the oven or were brought in from the extra refrigerator in the garage by Rivka and Annette, who worked in tandem.

Within the next hour and a half, even more people would start coming in with dishes of food to share, both hot and cold. As Marianne guided Sarah through the process of finding room for everything, appetizers would start to emerge from the kitchen – trays laden with crab cakes, crudités and dip, various cheeses with crackers of all varieties, breads of all description with herbed or sweet spreads, and a huge bowl of fruit salad for those who wanted something light to begin the day's repast.

Bernie gave Marianne a kiss, with all the intensity John had frequently kissed Sarah, before he headed home to check on the turkey his wife had started early that morning. Since it was close to being ready, John knew his brother would stay until he could safely bring it over while hot from the oven, to take it's place next to their mother's version. Bernard 'brined' and spiced their bird every year, a nice counterpoint to Ruthie's traditional recipe. Both were always very well-received by hungry family and friends.

John's Uncle Jacob, whom Ben called Onkel Jacob, using Yiddish to differentiate between Jacob and his son Jake, walked in and headed straight for the kitchen. "Ruthie, dear, you want me to do my usual job?"

"Yes, that would be a great help to me right now, Jacob," she replied, pulling another cookie sheet filled with crab cakes out of the oven. "If you could find a nice, safe place to chill the drinks and keep the kids out of the harder beverages, I'd be grateful. You're such a mensch!"

John was still putting the finishing touches on the last three chairs, not having seen Jacob come in. He felt a firm tap on his shoulder, a familiar voice telling him, "You're almost done with those chairs. Next, you should help me bring in the copper tubs, Johnny." He looked up, almost gasped in surprise and grabbed his uncle in a hug.

"Uncle Jake! How've you been?" He let go of him and took a step back for a moment. "It seems like forever since I've seen you."

His uncle grinned, shook his head and almost laughed. "Distance makes it seem longer; it's only been a year. We talk at least a couple times every month, but it could always be more often." Jacob leaned forward, regarding John with a long look over the top of his glasses. "Your mother called me and said you'd brought someone home. Where is this lovely creature I've heard so much about?" He began to look around, certain John's newest pursuit couldn't be more than a few steps away.

"She's helping Marianne at the moment," he explained, watching as Sarah brought out a plate of Brie and red grapes from the kitchen. Once she set the plate down, John called to her as she looked up and went to his side. "Sarah, meet my Uncle Jacob," he said, "but beware his charms. He'll steal you away from me if he gets half a chance." He tried to keep his tone on the serious side, failed miserably and began to chuckle.

"It's very nice to meet you," Zelman said, blushing as Jacob took her hand and gallantly kissed it. "Ohhhhh, now I see where John gets his charm." She held his hand for a moment as he seemed to study her appearance. He was almost as tall as John, closer to Bernie's height, with thick silver gray hair swept back from his broad forehead and mischievous dark eyes. A pair of what appeared to be wire rimmed reading glasses peeked from inside his suit coat pocket, as he leaned forward with ease.

"He's been taught by the finest, if I do say so myself," Jacob quipped. "It's good to meet you, Sarah, after everything Ruth has told me about you." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before he let go. "I'm about to drag your boyfriend off to help me set up some drinks, but I hope we can talk later. It's not every day I'm given the opportunity to share conversation with such a beautiful woman."

"Thank you," she replied, her face pinking even more. "I'm sure we'll get to talk. I'll make certain we do." She smiled brightly as he winked. "John's right about you, I can tell already." Sarah heard Marianne call out to her from the kitchen.

"See? He starts with the flattery, then suddenly I'll be in a corner by myself while he has you enraptured with his stories," John warned her lightly. "I need to help get some things from the garage." He gave her a kiss, as he heard Marianne laugh before pointedly clearing her throat. "I think you're being paged." He sighed as she walked into the kitchen, wishing he'd had time for a second kiss.

"Onkel Jake, can I help, too?"

"Of course you can, Ben," he answered, bending to the youngest Munch's level. "When I bring in the bags of ice, you can help me cover the drinks." He knew John was a few paces ahead of him, headed toward the garage. "Your Uncle John and I will be right back."

Jacob caught up in time to see John pull on a pair of suede work gloves, before setting up the ladder. "Hang on there, Johnny," he said affably. "You're not doing this alone, kiddo." He reached up to take one end of the first of three copper-clad tubs, as his nephew climbed down carefully while they worked together.

"What do you think?" John asked, as they repeated their task until all three were down from the shelves and he could put the ladder away.

"About your girl, or how best to clean these tubs?" Jacob asked, a gleam in his eye.

He huffed, a wry smile on his face. "I was referring to these, but since you mentioned Sarah, you could tell me what your first impressions were." Once the ladder was stowed, they took the tubs into the backyard to hose them out thoroughly.

"One look into those eyes and I could tell you certainly hadn't brought home another bubblehead," Jacob replied, reeling out the hose and turning it on. "Maria was always off in her own little world, and Nancy expected to be entertained, but since neither of them made conversation or pitched in to help, things weren't particularly happy when either one of them were here."

John shot him a look, then added a half cup of cleaner to the first copper receptacle. He motioned for his uncle to turn the house full-force to their task, as he backed away to a safe distance. "At least you're not ashamed to speak your mind," he replied, a bit too sarcastically for Jacob.

"You're the one who asked, remember," the older Munch shot back. "I will say, she has the glow of someone who's not afraid to join in, which I admire in a woman."

"Life isn't a spectator sport for Sarah," John admitted, watching his uncle's cleaning expertise. "She'd known Marianne for less than an hour before she was standing right next to her, cooking like she'd been in her kitchen a thousand times before." The tub washed and rinsed, the hose turned off, he hauled the large vessel to the patio for a quick wipe down as Jacob started washing the next one.

"I'm glad to hear it, Johnny. What I really want to know is, have you found someone you're intellectually compatible with?" It wasn't taking him long with the second of the three, conversation making their task easier. "Does she challenge you in all the right ways?" he asked. "Does she read enough, question enough and keep your mental sparkplugs firing all the time, or has she been giving you a jumpstart every morning in the good old fashioned way?" He turned off the hose for a moment, as John took the tub away to dry it off.

"Ohhhh, here we go… I should have expected this from you, Uncle Jake," he reasoned aloud. "She's not at all like Nancy, if that's what you're asking. She reads as much as I do, she keeps me on my toes, makes me defend my position on the issues and Sarah despises what she refers to as 'intentionally lazy thinking.'"

"In that case, I think I will steal her away from you," he replied, laughing, before he turned the hose toward the remainder of their task. "Where is she on the political spectrum, though?"

"She's a neo-con Republican," John deadpanned, as Jacob almost dropped the hose.

"Evil vixen! I knew there had to be a deeply concealed flaw, or she wouldn't be with you!" Water pinged sharply off the last of the tubs as Jacob shook his head sadly, a wry smile on his careworn features. As he heard his nephew laugh, he debated turning the hose on him. "You were joking? You shouldn't toy with an old man, you know."

"Hey! Who're you calling old?" John asked pointedly. "Don't let Mom hear you or she'll let you have it."

"I'll take my chances at this point. So, tell. Politically, Sarah is a – "

"Moderate Democrat. Happy now?"

"As happy as if I'd found her for myself," he joked. "Now if she just plays Scrabble, she's as good a daughter-in-law as your mother could ever hope for."

O0O

Ben Munch somberly approached his uncle, waited for a pause in the conversation as his parents had taught him, then tugged gently at the sleeve of John's suit coat. "Uncle John?" he asked, as they suddenly had a moment alone. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, Ben. Let's go somewhere quiet and talk, shall we?" He led his nephew into Ruthie's bedroom, giving them both a moment away from the hum of activity in the house. "You look pretty serious, kiddo. Something on your mind?" John sat down on the edge of the bed, giving Ben a boost up to sit beside him.

He had the expression of someone much older than his not quite seven years, which always amazed his uncle. The child was definitely an 'old soul,' who understood much more than many of his elders gave him credit for. "Are you gonna marry Aunt Sarah and make her my real aunt?" he asked. "She wouldn't tell me and said I had to ask you, but only when we're alone." He stared down at his polished leather shoes, comparing the size of his feet to his uncle's wingtips for a moment. "How come she won't tell me? Is it something bad? Why do we only have to talk about it when it's you and me with no one else?"

"You're a waterfall of questions today, aren't you, squirt?" John asked, careful to keep his tone even. He wasn't sure if the boy was upset or merely thinking about the latest turn of events. He moved slightly to his right, picked Ben up and sat him on his lap. "Sarah and I haven't been together all that long, the way adults are together when they're thinking of getting married. Sometimes, two people have different ideas about when they should get married, because other things get in the way – like working in the same place. When you're both police in the same squad, there are rules that make it a lot harder."

He studied Ben's expression carefully, to be sure he understood before he continued. "It isn't anything bad. She wanted us to talk about it alone, because people can get the wrong idea and think we're getting married very soon. Bubbe Ruthie would like us to get married right away, but we need time," he explained. "Your bubbe doesn't accept we're bound by police department rules this time."

Ben nodded, aware his grandmother tended to be rather impatient when it came to her family's wellbeing. "Aunt Sarah likes you. I can tell," he decided. "I saw you kiss her – better than you kissed Aunt Billie. You kiss her more!" Ben laughed as John nudged him with an elbow, punctuating it with a wink. "You like each other a lot!"

"She and I certainly do like each other a lot," he admitted, a smile on his face. "Can you keep a secret, Ben? A serious, deep, important secret?" John asked, sure his nephew could be trusted with what he'd tell him. "Cross your heart and swear to never tell, until I let you?" He looked over the top of his lenses, into Ben's dark eyes.

"I know how to keep secrets. I won't even tell Daddy," he promised, knowing he'd never gossip about his favorite uncle.

"Then I can tell you," John decided, not breaking his gaze. "Someday, very far in the future, I'll make sure she's your real aunt. In the meantime, it's fine if you call her 'Aunt Sarah,' because I can tell she loves you. She likes it when you call her that." He pulled Ben into a makeshift hug, once again wishing he had a son exactly like him, sadly aware it would never happen.

"How come it can't be now, Uncle John? Don't you love her enough yet?" he asked, still wondering. "Mommy says, if two people love each other enough – like her and Daddy – nothing can keep them apart no matter what."

John sighed, not frustrated at Ben but unhappy with the NYPD's regulations. "We love each other very much, Ben. Just like your mom and dad love each other," he explained. "We'd like to get married, but if we did, our boss wouldn't let us work together anymore. It's the rules." A damned, red-tape-ridden, idiotic rule meant to keep people apart when both are doing something they love, he thought bitterly.

"It's a stupid rule," Ben decided, voicing what his uncle hadn't. "Is it like, if I climbed the pirate ship with Rachel every recess, then the teacher would make her go to a different homeroom?" The child was perceptive, with a rapid grasp of emotional issues. It was a gift he inherited from both parents, who dealt adeptly with grieving individuals almost every day.

"You're very astute, Ben. That's a great way to describe it," John replied.

"What's a 'stoot,' Uncle John?"

"Astute is all one word, Ben. It means you're very sharp, quick to judge situations in a logical way." He hoped his nephew would develop the love of words he had as a child. Taking time to define new words was one of the things he enjoyed doing for Ben.

"Astute," he repeated carefully. "Is that the right way?" he asked, trying out the new word. He liked the way it sounded.

"It is. Very good," John encouraged. "You know, once I retire, Sarah might leave the NYPD, too. Then she and I will get married." He watched Ben smile at the thought of it, before he realized he was smiling, too. "You like weddings, don't you? Wearing a tuxedo with a bow tie, cummerbund and boutonnière – all of them exactly like your dad's and mine. Would you like that, kiddo?"

"Yeah! We'd all be alike then." He got off his uncle's lap, sitting squarely on the side of the bed once more. He held up his foot as John placed his against it, something Ben always looked forward to because he wanted his feet to be a size eleven and a half like his dad's and his uncle's. "Cake and punch are my favorites! My best friend Jerry got to be in his aunt's wedding. Do you mean I get to be in yours, for real?

He gave Ben a look over the top of his lenses. "Of course you will. You'll stand next to your dad, which is a very special place to be," he explained. "You'll also be in charge of carrying the rings, which is the hardest job of all – but I know you can do it." He could see it all in his mind; Ben as ring-bearer, then with him inside a chuppah made with his late father's prayer shawl if possible. He stopped himself when he thought of Sarah walking slowly down the aisle toward him, because the last time he gave over his imagination to it, the mental picture had brought tears standing in his eyes.

"Uncle John, I wish you were already retired," Ben said, jumping off the bed.

John sighed, getting up to follow his nephew back into the living room. "Ben, there are a lot of days when I wish that, too."

…to be continued…

It will be a while before I update here, because I'm writing more of the story. If you want to see chapters before they're posted here, please go to the MunchagogueReformed – the link is in my profile. The story is under Chapter Fics. C'mon over and enjoy your fill of Munch-related fic!


	9. Chapter 9

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Nine

John walked into his mother's formal dining room, the gleam of the place settings bringing back memories of Thanksgivings past. He started reading the place cards approvingly, their order having him at the head of the table; to his left would be his mom, then Bernie, Marianne, Ben, his Uncle Jacob, and other family members and friends. To his right, would be Sarah; his cousins Andy, Rhoda, Brenda, Lee, his half-brother Jake, Jake's wife and children, and various family friends. The more he thought about it, the less he liked his mother's arrangement of the cards.

He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking, then picked up Andy and Ben's place cards and swapped them. This put his nephew next to Sarah, and Andy across the table next to Marianne, to remove much of the temptation for his favorite cousin to make asides about the FBI. John was vaguely anxious Andy's oft-sharp tongue would be loosened by a bit too much red wine, triggering Sarah to either pithily retort to his jibes, or suffer silently as she gritted her teeth.

John grinned, knowing Ben would be thrilled to sit next to his "Aunt Sarah." He made a mental note to bring in the Oxford English Dictionary from Bernie's old room. It made the perfect booster for Ben, who liked to be in the midst of his elders' conversations.

In the Munch family, as it had also been in Zelman's upbringing, having a 'children's table' was absolutely unheard of. Younger members of the family were educated on the finer points of etiquette and what made for proper dinner conversation, all of them patiently tutored at a very early age. By not being relegated to eat with only those within their age group, Munch children learned more and were better equipped for social situations they'd encounter later in life. Because of this, John and Sarah never had to feel edgy or embarrassed over each other's table manners, as theirs were impeccable. Their parents wouldn't have tolerated anything less.

"Rather stunning table, isn't it?" Sarah asked, breaking John's reverie. She held out a glass of merlot, having poured it for him when she'd poured one for herself.

He nodded his gratitude as he accepted the glass. "Not nearly as stunning as you are."

"I love it when you pander to me," she quipped, not wanting to let an opportunity to kiss him pass her by. They kissed playfully, both enjoying being out of the thrum of family and friends for a moment or two. "People are starting to wonder where you've gone."

"Let's leave them guessing for a couple minutes longer, shall we?" John put his wine glass down on the table, then took Sarah's and did the same. They wrapped their arms around each other tightly, kissing with serious intent, briefly unaware of anyone but the two of them. They almost jumped when they heard someone loudly clear his voice.

"Daddy was right, Uncle John. He said you were hiding somewhere, kissing Aunt Sarah," Ben announced, catching them as they blushed. "Bubbe Ruthie said you should come out now, before she has to find you. I told her I knew where you were."

"Busted," Sarah said, giving John a look. She straightened her jacket, picked up her wine glass and smiled at Ben. "You're an excellent detective already, kiddo." She hoped the embarrassment was fading from her face, not only from Ben locating them so easily but also from Bernard's pointed comment conveyed by his son.

"Uncle John can never hide from me," he said proudly.

"I guess that means we'd better go mingle, now that Detective Ben has found us," John said, chuckling. He took his wine glass from the cherry wood table, giving the empty chairs a long look before he led his girlfriend and his nephew from the room.

O0O

Forty minutes later, John had introduced Sarah to more people than she'd ever fully remember. He noticed approvingly her smile was always genuine; she was quick to shake hands or accept a happy embrace from both his relatives and friends. For someone who usually shied away from physical contact except his, he was pleased she seemed to be coping extraordinarily well.

Once the last crab cake was out of the oven, Ruth came out to introduce them to several of her social circle, only twice referring to Zelman as her "future daughter-in-law." John marveled at his mother's restraint, but was grateful for it nonetheless.

He allowed himself a moment of pride when Sarah even engaged his half-brother, Jake, in conversation. The graying, bespectacled drywaller had recently passed the test for his general contractor's license, now having something in common with two of Zelman's favorite uncles. She talked with him about both Marvin and Richard, who'd teamed up to built split-level homes and swimming pools in the 1970s.

Jake couldn't have been more pleased to have one of his brother's girlfriends finally chat about something that mattered to him, rather than smile and make a beeline for 'girl talk' with his wife. As Sarah excused herself for a quick trip into the kitchen, he turned to John and gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder.

"I heard how you found her," he began, "but I have no idea how you keep her." He couldn't resist teasing John, since he was certainly intrigued. "She's much more down-to-earth than the others, isn't she?"

He tipped his head back and gave Jake a look. "Yes, albeit no less well-read than Gwen. Don't lose your mind entirely, but she's also a fan of college hoops. She follows the ball almost as much as you and I do." John saw the expression on Jake's face change to subtle admiration, then to open surprise. "Hey, what can I say? I've always been able to attract more than my share of amazing women," John said, no hint of irony in his tone.

"Granted, that's true," he retorted. "We'll just keep making book on whether or not you'll be able to hang on to this one." Jake grinned, no rancor in his voice as he elbowed his brother. "Good luck. This is one time I'm betting on you," he said, before his wife called him over to greet yet another cousin who longed to catch up on things.

John turned, made eye contact with Sarah across the room, surreptitiously motioning her toward him. "Jake informed me some of the family is taking bets on how long we'll be together," he said.

She laughed, amused at the thought of them all involved in a wagering pool of sorts. "Is he betting we'll stay together?" She glanced at Jake across the room, catching sight of him as he looked up, into her eyes. As his face reddened, she turned back to John, a wide smile on her face.

"He's counting on us," John assured her. "After undoubtedly losing money on my previous relationships, he at least has the good sense to recognize we're in it for the long haul." He took a sip of wine, momentarily considering something stronger while his Uncle Jacob tended bar and mentally kept tabs on who had how much.

"Jake's a smart man," Sarah said. "At least he's finally right."

O0O

Andy Munch was late.

Fifteen minutes into dinner, the increased decibel level of conversation confirmed he had arrived. Not long after, John's favorite cousin brought a full plate of food to the table, smiled tightly and sat down. He looked across the table, his gaze locked with Zelman's as they made each other. Both of them effortlessly kept their expressions blank, John unaware the temperature in the room seemed to plunge as a wordless chill settled between the CIA agent and the retired Special Agent.

John smiled, delighted to finally introduce his cousin to Sarah. "Sarah, this is Andy – the government ne'er do well I've told you about."

She remained on her best behavior despite her past experience with him. "Andy…a pleasure to meet you," she lied smoothly, her tone the epitome of warmth. They had history; a shared assignment in which the FBI had relentlessly pursued a known trafficker in women forced into the sex trades, suddenly identified by the CIA as an international informant for the Agency. Andy Munch had come to retrieve the man, taking him from Zelman's grasp in the most undiplomatic manner possible and effectively obliterating months of painstaking work her task force had almost completed.

Because of the way in which it all came down, some could easily say Sarah Zelman wasn't the only one who held a grudge. Her fellow agents, her boss and his superiors had been anything but pleased. While Andy knew he'd run roughshod over a major case the Bureau was making against the operative, he hadn't cared then and he had even less regard for what had happened now.

The Agency had told him what to do and he did it, simple as that. Munch had done his job, then moved on to his next assignment, case closed. He wasn't there to make amends, even though his cousin was hooked by the heartstrings to Sarah. Andy viewed that situation as temporary at best, given John's dubious track record.

"Nice to meet you, Sarah," Andy replied, his words more cordial than he felt. He gave her a cursory look, his blue eyes in stark contrast to John's warm brown gaze. He abruptly turned his attention to his plate, thrusting his fork into a generous spoonful of candied yams.

"Before you came in," John said, "I was telling Bernie the shop looks great. It's a lot less like a bordello for the bereaved." He watched as Sarah concentrated on cutting a slice of turkey with more intensity than usual.

"Johnny, granted it needed a decorative update for quite a while, but it never looked like a 'bordello.'" Bernie took a long sip of Pinot Blanc, enjoying being able to banter with his brother in person.

John was certainly up to the challenge of a bit of verbal sparring. "Back when Gwen's mother was laid out, it did," he retorted, as he put his fork down for a moment. "All that red was a bit much, even you have to admit. Yet, I somehow find that only fitting, since the late Mrs. Talbot was such a –"

"Johnny!" Marianne snapped, nodding her head toward Ben.

Sarah debated giving her partner a swift kick under the table when she saw Ruthie's cheeks had turned slightly pink. She wasn't sure if it was a blush of embarrassment or a flush from wanting to take John to task.

"Johnny, don't speak ill of the dead," Ruth insisted. "Mrs. Talbot wasn't someone I particularly enjoyed seeing, but that doesn't mean you can joke about her funeral."

"You're right, Mom. I'm sorry… It was a beautiful room," he admitted. "Bernie's the best party planner for corpses anyone could ever wish for." He raised his glass of wine and gestured toward his brother.

"I think you just proved your sense of humor is even more perverse than mine," Bernard replied, a wry smile on his face.

"Thank you," John answered, accepting what was questionable praise at best. "Seriously though, the new light gray décor looks very stately, you could say almost funereal." He went back to his meal, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Marianne began to quiver with laughter at her brother-in-law's horrible pun. "Sarah, does he make you suffer like this, too? Tell me he doesn't torture you like he does us."

She was laughing softly, too. "Gallows humor and crummy puns are competition sports where we work. You don't want to walk into the middle of it, especially if you haven't had your morning coffee first." Munch and Cragen would go back and forth, until she couldn't hold back her laughter and Fin could no longer keep from complaining. Olivia would throw in an occasional pun or two, with Elliot shaking his head while he wondered how anyone could stand the world's lowest form of humor.

"That's right," Andy interjected, "you two work together now. How's it working out for you? Zelman – uh, Sarah, you left the FBI, right?" He knew she'd been forced out, but he wanted to know if she'd lie in front of her potentially future family.

"The FBI left me," she replied, managing to keep the rancor from her tone. "They didn't have a place for me after the offices in the WTC were destroyed. I was given an opportunity to retire from the Bureau, which I took."

"No more top-secret assignments, jetting off to capture a criminal at a moment's notice… Isn't the NYPD a let-down after all you did with the FBI?" There was no guile in his tone, but the question alone was enough to make everyone around him pause in momentarily silence.

He's baiting her, John thought, wondering why Andy seemed to dislike Sarah almost at first sight.

"It's not a 'let-down' for me at all," she answered. "John and I do some very valuable work with our squad, Captain Cragen leads remarkably well and let's us all do our work without too much interference from the brass." She took a sip of water, relieved her hands weren't shaking considering how angry she was becoming. "They appreciate my expertise and didn't expect me to start out as a patrol officer, so I'm more than happy where I'm at." She'd kept her tone friendly, but firm, unwilling to let anyone belittle her work and John's.

"Good for you," Andy replied, with a curt nod. "I'd miss it, personally. Then again, I've never fallen for someone hard enough to follow them to another agency."

At that moment, Rhoda's fork slipped from her fingers and clattered against her plate. "You've never fallen completely for anybody, Andy, that's your problem," she snapped, wondering if that was his first or second glass of merlot since he'd arrived. Before he could open his mouth to respond, she glared at him.

Ruth sighed, giving both John and Andy a look over the top of her lenses. It was a warning to stop, especially since she, too, had no idea what was beneath it all.

Aware the tone of the adults' conversation had come to a standstill, Ben used it to his advantage. "Aunt Sarah, would you please pass the gravy?"

"Sure, Ben." She gingerly took the gravy boat by its handle and moved it toward her de facto nephew. "Would you like me to pour some on your turkey?"

"Sure. My stuffing, too, please," he replied.

She busied herself helping Ben, hoping the topic had been dropped. She wasn't quite as lucky in that regard as she'd hoped.

"Crime is the same, no matter the perp," John said, standing his ground in defense of them both. "What makes the difference is who you work with while you do your job. Not too much else changes, whether it's the FBI, CIA or the NYPD."

"Hey, mein bruder, at the Agency we don't form close attachments. It's bad for business." True to form, Andy wasn't close to other CIA agents; certainly not as close as Sarah had been to her coworkers at the Bureau.

"So I've noticed," John retorted. "There are checks and balances when you work with a squad. It keeps any of us from going 'rogue,' not that we would, but you know how it is. Some police don't have the ability to play well with others, no matter how vital it is to the assignment." There, he'd verbally given his cousin a punch to the gut, in hopes he'd lay off Sarah and her past with the FBI once and for all.

"Just what are you implying, Johnny? As if I didn't know," Andy replied sharply.

"Boys, both of you need to cool down a bit," Ruthie said calmly. Spirited conversation dominated every Munch family gathering, but only John and Andy seemed to take it personally. They were so close in age and diverse in their opinions, most people didn't realize how deep their bond truly was. Ruth was relieved either Sarah wasn't fazed by the momentary hint of animosity in the air, or she was studiously avoiding being drawn into it.

"Andy, how long have you been with the CIA?" Zelman asked, curious.

"I started with them maybe five years before you were at Quantico," he said, giving everyone a tidbit to contemplate.

John and Bernie's heads snapped upward almost simultaneously. They shared a look, both finally aware there was a connection between Andy and Sarah, something Bernie knew John would ferret out of his cousin before the afternoon and evening were through.

"Sarah, are you getting enough to eat?" Ruth asked, adeptly changing the subject. "You should have more turkey. You and Johnny have been so busy while you've been here, you look like you haven't been eating enough."

"You didn't see all the food I had on my plate when I came to the table, Mom. I sampled each turkey, both of which are wonderful, with enough vegetables and salad to last me a week at least. I'm saving room for dessert," she decided, looking forward to trying a piece of Ruthie's apple pie.

_Mom_. Andy's blood pressure immediately rose when he heard Sarah call his Aunt Ruth something so personal. He was sure she'd ingratiated herself into the family; quickly, too, probably under the guise of wanting to wear white and walk down the aisle. He had to talk sense into his cousin before he made a dreadful mistake, because John had no clue what he was getting into.

"I wanted to make sure you didn't leave the table hungry, dear," she replied warmly.

"I have just enough room to finish this, before moving on to dessert," John announced, thinking pumpkin pie with whipped cream would be the perfect conclusion to such a wonderful meal.

"Go ahead, Johnny, and be sure you eat every last bite," Bernie insisted. "You'll need all that to sustain you through a game of hoops with Andy. Unless you're not playing…" He had a sly grin on his face as he shrugged, knowing they'd do this year what they did almost every Thanksgiving.

"Oh, we're playing – wouldn't miss it for anything," Andy quipped, paying more attention to his green bean casserole than to the threat of his cousin besting him at basketball. "Johnny weighted down with all that food, he'll be slow. I'll score an easy win this time."

John's musical laughter rang throughout the room. "You have that fantasy every year, right before I out-jump, out-shoot and out-score you."

O0O

"Do I get to start the game, Uncle John? Last year, you promised I could do it this time." Ben Munch stood between his uncles, who made a conscious effort not to crush him in the melee to come.

"Throw it as high as you can, Ben," John reminded him, looking back and forth between him and Andy. "Straight up, remember?"

"I know, Uncle John, I know." He stood at the ready, looking a little intimidated as both men loomed over him. A lot depended on him, he knew.

Munch had taken off his suit coat, leaving it draped over the bed in his mother's bedroom, next to the gray silk tie he'd also taken off. His sleeves rolled to his elbows, he was more than ready for what he was about to do. He was about to wipe his cousin all over the driveway, thanks to his self-proclaimed prowess with the round ball.

As Ben threw the basketball high into the air, John jumped for the tip-off and managed to snag it as Andy almost got it first. Ben quickly backed off the driveway as John bounced the ball enough not to be considered 'traveling,' rushing almost to the end of the drive as Andy charged him good-naturedly. He ducked under his cousin's reach for the ball, turned toward the basket to shoot and…missed.

Andy grabbed the ball on the rebound, jogged down to their agreed three-point line and fired off a shot that was nothing but net, followed by a triumphant yell. "I'm surprised your Bureau bunny isn't out here watching us," he said, passing the ball to John.

"This once, I'll pretend I didn't hear you say that," he replied, a thinly veiled warning in his tone. "I'd like to think you came to play, rather than use the opportunity to make snide comments about Sarah." He dribbled the ball twice, then launched it into the air before Andy could react, nailing a perfect two-pointer.

"I guess you don't need a cheering section," he said appreciatively. "Nice shot."

John passed the ball and both men almost tussled their way down the driveway, trading possession several times until Andy tried for another three-point shot and missed. "What's happened to you?" John asked. "You're playing like a girl today for some reason." He didn't mean it in a derogatory sense, but he did want his cousin to know he wasn't completely on his game.

"I play like a girl? Maybe we should get Zelman out here, then we'll see who plays like a girl," he retorted, biting off another comment. He sent the ball sailing through the net, as John grabbed the rebound and stood still. "Better now? I'm kicking you ass today, in case you hadn't noticed."

"You wish," he quipped, unmoving. "Why am I starting to think you have something personal against my girlfriend?" he asked, genuinely perplexed.

"Johnny, I didn't want to say anything over dinner, but she and I have worked together." Andy watched as John rolled the ball to the side of the drive, then stood with his hands on his hips. "She had no idea I was a part of this family, until I sat down at the table. I'm surprised all hell didn't break loose, considering our mutual dislike and distrust." There. It was finally out in the open, giving Andy a sense of relief.

"I caught the innuendo, Andy. As heavy-handed as you were about it, I'm sure everyone at the table did too." John wasn't about to let his cousin off the hook about what transpired earlier, not when he'd managed to pique the curiosity of immediate family with his pointed remarks. "You worked together on a case? When?" he asked.

"Long enough it's ancient history now," Andy replied. "Maybe we should just let it drop, Johnny." Munch had a feeling he'd dug himself in pretty deep, well aware John wasn't about to let things slide.

"You didn't even identify yourself to her?" John asked. The tone in his voice made it clear he was getting more than a little worked up at the thought of it all. "We're not done with this, Andy – I want to hear the details."

"Yeah, well, we worked a sex slavery case, about two years ago," he offered. "She was on a need to know basis and, believe me, she didn't need to know who I was. The Feebs were pretty hot over the fact I had to pull their perp before they could bust him on federal charges," he explained, his gaze locked with John's. "If she's carrying a grudge, fine. As for me, I've moved on."

John wasn't sure if he was angered more over his cousin's flippant tone, or by the knowledge Zelman's case had been ripped out from beneath her – for the sake of protecting a pervert who had dirt on someone higher up in the government's food chain. "You could have at least warned me about all this, Andy," he insisted. "Maybe a phone call, an e-mail, something to clue me in that this was going to be more than your usual inter-agency whining." He walked to the very edge of the driveway and looked around the backyard. Ben was playing with a couple of Jake's kids near the swing-set, all of them by turns chasing or launching a Frisbee. "We're taking this into the garage," John decided.

"Sure, Johnny," he agreed. "God forbid Ben should hear me insult his new aunt." He saw the expression on John's face and quickly added, "Lighten up! C'mon, I'm kidding."

"Like hell you are," he snapped, leading them both in through the side door. He went to the rear and turned on the light above what had been his father's workbench. "Why don't you just get it all out of your system now? Go ahead and say all the sarcastic, mean-spirited things you want, in front of me instead of her." He stood there, a dare in his gaze, his arms crossed over his chest. "You couldn't possibly just get along with her for my sake, could you? Nothing was going to happen over dinner, contrary to what you thought, because her social skills are impeccable. She wasn't about to do anything embarrassing, unlike you, who jabbed at her so much you were starting to make Mom's temper boil over."

"Don't worry, she can take the banter," Andy insisted. "As a matter of fact, she has a pretty smart mouth on her – I heard plenty of it when we were forced to cooperate." He pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights and offered one to John. "Want one?"

He quickly replied, "No thanks."

Andy was surprised, since they usually shared a smoke while they caught up on things. "Since when did you quit entirely?" he asked, genuinely curious. John had never been a hard core smoker completely addicted to nicotine, but he would accept one socially from time to time, more likely to do so when he was nervous or tense.

"Right after Ben turned six. I don't want him to smell cigarette smoke on me, not at his age," he explained. "Somehow, I've inadvertently become a role model. Guess I'd better not blow it." He forced a tight smile as Andy tapped the pack against his hand and pulled one out.

"You have a point, mein bruder," he agreed. "Hopefully, he won't love me any less if I fail him in the virtue department." He lit his cigarette, taking a deep drag.

John brushed off Andy's comment as he silently wished he had something to steady his nerves. Intuition and years of knowing his cousin clued him he was in for more than a few questions. "What have you been doing lately, aside from keeping our government safe from anarchists?"

"You know what I've been doing – a little background checking on a certain Sarah Rochelle Zelman," he said, swinging the topic back in order to exhaust that conversation and move on. He lowered his voice, to make sure only the two of them could hear. "You should have told me she was a spook, Johnny, instead of leaving it to me to find out through channels," he added. "Technically, she still is FBI, even though – on the surface – the Feebs insist they've cut her loose." He took another puff and wished he had a shot of something at least twelve years old and 80-proof to go with it.

John shrugged, trying to keep his tone even. He was irked Andy had delved into Sarah's background without so much as asking his permission, let alone hers. "It's not as if she's going back, because she's happy with the NYPD. Happier still, since she's doing for us exactly what she did for them," he assured him. "The Bureau didn't fully appreciate her."

"Or maybe," Andy hypothesized, "they planned to get rid of her all along, and once 9/11 happened it gave them the excuse they needed." He took another pull from his Marlboro, exhaled and studied his cousin's reaction.

John had been careful not to overreact, but this was too much. "You're saying their getting rid of Sarah was a conspiracy of some sort?" He was almost ready to light up at that point, the thought of any plan by the FBI regarding Zelman beginning to rattle his nerves. "You can't be serious. She's still on the hook as a 'consultant' or had you conveniently skipped that part?"

"'Consultant'? Bullshit, Johnny. You bet I'm serious about all this," he assured him. "It wasn't laid out in so many words maybe, but you always get chicks who're more than a little meshugge." Almost every woman John had a relationship with had issues, including the beautiful blonde photographer he thought was relatively sane – until she'd publicly displayed a photograph of him stoned, wearing nothing but a headband. Andy had seen it all play out every time, always wishing his cousin could find a woman who wouldn't turn out to be a borderline head case. Gwen Talbot was as close to stable as John's love life had ever come.

"This chick of yours has got a pretty serious psych history, in case you hadn't noticed. George Huang is the reason she was kept on for so long, because he was quick with glowing reports that downplayed her 'issues.'" Andy was smug with the knowledge he'd not only found out Zelman was under treatment for bipolar disorder, but also that she was classified as obsessive-compulsive, both of which she'd disclosed to John after the terrorist attacks. Her post-traumatic stress disorder had also been noted, but even Andy knew the circumstances and understood as much.

"Do you think I'm Geraldo Rivera?" he asked sharply. "Do I _look_ like Geraldo River to you? Do you think you're opening Al Capone's vault here or something?" John snapped, ready for a full-fledged verbal battle if that's what it took to defend Sarah.

"Don't get all steamed about this," he replied. "I'm just saying – "

"Saying what? You've dug far enough into her background to find out she's what they used to refer to as being mentally ill?" John looked at him and let out a sigh. "Andy, she's been very open about the problems with her brain chemistry – and that's all it is – to the point of being absolutely forthcoming when it comes to her psych profile," he said quietly. "In case _you_ hadn't noticed, the Munch family can't exactly be considered poster children for flawless mental health." He hoped his cousin wouldn't force elaboration of the subject, because he was in no mood to revisit his father's suicide. Again.

"Johnny, you – "

"I get what you're saying, Andy. I'm less than thrilled you took it upon yourself to run her FBI jacket, too. You should have asked me, at the very least. That was not only completely out of line, but now she'll know," he warned, watching as his cousin dropped his cigarette butt and ground it out on the concrete. "She still has her laptop from her days with the Bureau. Now someone will tip her off you've decided to give her an unauthorized background check. Could you have been any more careless?" Sometimes, John wondered exactly how competent a CIA agent Andy could be, since he often let his emotions rule his actions without benefit of too much thought.

"It wasn't careless, it was necessary," he shot back. "And so what? If she's going to be part of this family, there are certain things I need to know." For a moment, he sincerely wished he hadn't mixed in, but then pride kicked in and he refused to admit he was wrong.

"There's no 'if' to it!" John said hotly. "Sooner or later, she is going to be a member of this family regardless of how you feel. I'm only going to tell you this once, Andy – leave her alone." He was starting to encroach on his cousin's space, little by little, ready to get into an altercation if it came to that. "You think you're doing me some big favor here? Far from it!"

"I hear you, Johnny, but I also don't want you making another mistake!" Andy yelled, standing his ground. "If wife number five has something to hide, it matters to all of us!"

"No more than the other four did, and you didn't exactly trip over yourself running them through all your databases," he shot back, taking a couple steps backward as he tried to calm down. "Or maybe you did, but didn't tell me?"

"I didn't," And answered. "They were kooky, there's no debating it, but they also weren't cops. Zelman's still considered a top cop, Johnny," he said, lowering his voice to a civil level. "You know how many times she's been cited for 'bravery'? I'm not convinced she's safe to have your back, bruder. Her fearlessness might be covering some self-destruct mechanism, some kind of recklessness." He locked his gaze with John's, deep worry evident on his face. "You need to proceed with caution here. She could get you killed."

"I don't need to proceed with any kind of hesitation – you do!" he said, his temper getting the best of him once again. "Get used to Sarah, Andy. Understand that she and I are in this for keeps, okay? If you have issues with that, you'd better start working them out with Sarah, because we're together now and probably always will be – regardless of what you want or what you do to screw it up!"

"Johnny, I'm not trying to –"

"Don't ever question her ability to back me up, either, because she's a good cop regardless of what you've decided," he asserted, his hands once more resting on his hips. "If you're worried about her bravery, ask George Huang about it yourself, rather than slinking around in the background seeing how much damage you can do."

Andy's expression turned from worry to surprise. "She's wormed her way into your heart already, I see. Great, Johnny…just great."

"It was completely mutual. She's not hanging around me simply because I saved her life, nor is she after me for my non-existent riches," he replied. "What rubs my rectum the wrong way is this is less about Sarah than it is she's FBI. You're holding a grudge already, because she's from the Bureau." As his cousin's expression changed once more, he knew he'd struck a nerve – a deep one. He was almost glad he was able to hurt Andy, after the beating he was giving Sarah's reputation.

"Okay, fine! I'm not happy you've brought home a spook!" he admitted. "Look, Johnny, before we get into any more of this, I –

"I am right – that _is_ it! The old inter-agency rivalry has finally come home to roost. Get over it, Andy!" John yelled. "Stop being such a ghost, why don't you? At least have the common decency and civility to leave it at the door when you see Sarah." His attempts at lowering his voice once more were failing him, he could practically feel his blood pressure rise higher each time Andy opened his mouth.

"I knew this was going to be nothing but trouble! A big blow-up because I was concerned and did a little checking," he said, wondering if now Zelman had come between them permanently, something he'd do almost anything to avoid.

"Running her jacket and digging into her psych history is more than 'a little checking,'" John corrected him. "She's not beholden to the FBI as much as you think, not after what they did to her. Get to know her the good old-fashioned way, Andy – have a conversation with her." He watched as Andy lit a second cigarette, this time with enough of a tremble in his grip to be noticeable. His mistook his cousin's continued anger as nervousness. "Don't draw your false conclusions from words in a file, or from a piece of paper you've discovered in some impersonal governmental database. If you have questions about her past, ask her and she'll probably answer you – if you can keep your tone civil."

"Okay, so maybe we'll talk. But don't be surprised if I have more questions than she has answers," he said. "Who knows? Maybe you're right after all," he conceded, taking a long drag from his Marlboro. "It is a little disconcerting to have a Feeb joining the family, however."

"Quit referring to her that way, Andy!" John closed the space between them once again, ready to pound his point home if necessary.

"I'll call her whatever I want, Johnny. Get used to it!" he snapped, taking a small step back to widen the space between the two of them.

"Do you have any idea how close I am to decking you? Since you're only here to push my buttons and call into question my relationship with Sarah, I'd certainly be justified," John said hotly, glaring at his cousin. "You're well on your way to starting us feuding again. Every year, you do this! Since when is it your purpose in life to try and make me miserable?"

"Hey, that's not my intention and you know it!" Andy shot back. "I also wanted to make sure she's not another piece of tail to you," he admitted.

"You think this is all about sex? Jesus, Andy, what are you, jealous in addition to everything else?" he asked, incredulous. "Now who's crazy? You tell me!"

"I'm not crazy and I'm also not blind, Johnny. I can see Zelman's pretty. If you want me to congratulate you on finding another beautiful bird, fine – mazel tov," he replied. "Fuck until you both drop, for all I care." He glared at John in such a way there was no question a nerve had been struck. "You were the one who said 'a glass of beer never got warm in Gwen's hands.' Before and since, you've always had to flaunt the pretty chicks, haven't you?" he said, gesturing widely. For a moment, his expression turned sad as he thought about the past. "Johnny, I loved Gwen. It nearly killed me when she divorced you, but it wasn't long before you went back to your old ways," he said, his voice filled with emotion. "She was beautiful, Johnny. She was intelligent, sweet, and – "

"And she didn't want me! Then she slept with another cop!" John finished, thoroughly exasperated. He wanted nothing to do with the past, yet his cousin clung to it and refused to relinquish his grip. "Sarah wants me, Andy. You're not dead and you're not exactly going without schtupping somebody from time to time when the mood strikes you, so don't pull that 'poor pitiful me' bullshit," he almost spat. "You know what it feels like to be desired after years of being taken for granted? To have someone be more concerned with your needs than their own? After years of being regarded as nothing but a paycheck or an alimony payment?" He waited for Andy to answer, but the man was stunned into momentary silence. "Sarah makes her own money. The woman genuinely loves me and that's why she's with me. It's not going to change!"

"So it is about the sex. I should have known she'd have you whipped in no time," he said, sure this relationship would go down in flames just like all of them, leaving John to weather the fallout once more – alone.

"Shut the hell up, Andy! You have no idea what you're talking about!" John yelled, closing the space once more, practically nose to nose with him.

"Like hell I don't! You've got a history of making some pretty stupid decisions, when it comes to chicks," Andy said, refusing to back off or back down. "I'm trying to protect – "

"Protect me from what? My partner, whom you don't even know, aside from a collection of opinions from a bunch of government wonks who've barely met her?" he asked, infuriated. "Until you're happily married for a couple decades, don't you dare question my relationships! You got that?"

"Maybe I don't!" In a move he'd later regret, Andy dropped his cigarette and shoved his cousin – _hard_. He'd pushed him three flailing steps back, before John regained his balance. "Maybe I'm tired of trying to keep you out of trouble! Maybe I shouldn't give a damn if you end up shot, because your partner's too busy sleeping with you to watch your back!"

"Maybe you're so out of line, you've forgotten whose privacy you're invading!" Andy's insult torched John's temper like a rush of oxygen to an open flame. "You miserable piece of – " John lunged forward, shoving Andy so hard against the side door of the garage, he could hear his head impact the steel-clad door. In his fury, he didn't care. Before the heavier man could recover from being momentarily stunned, John connected with a right cross to his cheek.

"Enough! Stop!" Between his aching head, sore shoulders and rapidly coloring cheek, Andy Munch knew he'd better calm John before they got into a full-fledged boxing match. An inch taller, twenty pounds lighter and in better shape, there was no doubt John could do him serious harm before he'd get in a jab or two. "You've made your point, Johnny. Get a grip, before we end up in the yard kicking each other's ass, all right?"

John's ragged breathing wasn't from the exertion of reminding his cousin who was the better brawler, it was from anger he was still struggling to contain. "I'm not through with you, until I get an apology," he growled.

"I'll admit, it was out of line to run her jacket. I'm sorry," he said, trying his best to make it sound sincere. "If she's the one you want, I hope you're happy together. Back it down a little, okay? Let me talk to her, maybe my opinion will change," he decided, rubbing his face in an effort to stop the sharp ache.

John composed himself at last, rolling his sleeves down and buttoning them. "I think you'll discover you like her, if you're willing to take the time to get to know her. If nothing else, do it for me. If you two talk, if you truly dislike her then, so be it," he reasoned. "Just don't be too quick to jump to conclusions, okay?"

Andy let out a long sigh, ready to give talking with Zelman a try even though he knew she'd have to prove herself to him. "Agreed. I'm sorry, Johnny. Like I said, I only want you to be safe," he asserted. "You mind if I take her for a cup of coffee?

"No, I don't mind," John replied, hoping Andy hadn't taken too much damage. "I'd be relieved, maybe even glad, if the two of you talked. I realize it's only so you can interrogate her without me being around," he acknowledged. "At least try to be subtle about it."

…to be continued…


	10. Chapter 10

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Ten

Sarah stood at the sink, carefully washing the crystal one stem at a time, rinsing it before she handed it off to Brenda Morganstern for drying. In turn, Brenda gently passed it to her sister Rhoda who put each glass away. They had their routine down like an assembly line, Zelman's nervousness over handling heirloom stemware quelled by Ruthie's encouragement. Thus far, she had listened quietly to the family gossip swirling around her, painfully aware lashon hara – the evil tongue – was despised in Jewish law, making such talk a serious sin.

Nothing had been said she didn't already know; another of John's cousins, Lee Morganstern was the most scattered CPA in all of Maryland, and had almost cost John thousands of dollars he didn't have when the IRS audited The Waterfront's books. If not for the combined efforts of his mother, also an accountant and his Uncle Andrew, a tax attorney and still a member of the Maryland Bar Association, John would have faced certain financial ruin. Ruthie had no hesitation in regaling the rest of the women in the family with tales from Lee's none too illustrious career, especially since he was still taking hapless new clients.

Sarah was listening to this, feeling bad for absorbing family gossip like a sponge, giving in to her guilty pleasure of hearing the dirt on everyone else. In the bullpen, she and John indulged together in the latest rumblings of the rumor mill, both of them careful not to share what they heard with anyone but each other.

Behind her, she suddenly heard what was unmistakably the hurried rush of a young boy. She recognized the voice immediately – Ben.

"Mom!" He sounded almost out of breath as he stood before her impatiently, fidgeting and filled with news.

Marianne paused from packaging leftovers in various containers, foil and plastic wrap. "Yes, Ben? You look a little flushed," she said, noticing the redness in his cheeks. "Been playing tag out back?"

"No, I was on the swings with Laurie," he answered. "Then I heard Uncle Andy yelling at Uncle John and he was yelling back. You should have heard them, Mom!" His eyes widened as he recounted events in a tone that said both men had overstepped the bounds of common sense and civility. "They said words you told me never to say, too!"

Sarah handed off the last crystal goblet to Brenda, rinsed off her gloves and turned to face her nephew. _Andy and John are at it,_ she thought. _Lovely._

Marianne's cheeks pinked, as she turned her full attention to her son. "You know how they are, Ben; they're both very opinionated," she relied. "Sometimes they get loud when they're discussing things and use words they shouldn't."

"I wish they'd have kept their swearing to a minimum, however," Ruthie interjected.

"They sounded really mad at each other," he said, still excited about what he'd overheard. "Uncle Andy was talking about Halloween. But it was last month… Why would they be fighting about it now, Mom?"

"Halloween?" she asked, clearly perplexed. "That's odd. What makes you think so?" Not that they usually argue about anything sensible to begin with, she silently decided.

He cast a glance at Zelman and shrugged. "Because he said Sarah was a spook," Ben replied, accepting an oatmeal cookie from his grandmother, who was listening intently, as were the others. "Uncle John called him a ghost and then they were yelling so loud, I came inside" Before he took a bite of cookie, he asked, "Aunt Sarah, did you dress up for Halloween? I did! I got to be a detective with handcuffs, a badge and everything!"

Spooks. Ghosts. With that, the color drained from Sarah's face as she realized exactly why the two men were arguing. "I was really scary on Halloween, Ben," she said quickly, trying to recover. "I was dressed as a very frightening…uh…spook. Very scary spook." Her gaze locked with Marianne's for a moment as the surreptitious cue to remove Ben from the room was received loud and clear.

"Ben, why don't you come with me for a little while?" Marianne asked, as she casually started to lead him from the kitchen. "Did you know Bubbe Ruthie has Animal Planet on her TV now?"

"I know. She's had it for a month," he answered, thinking it was strange his mother was directing him toward the television when all the action was outside in the garage. "What did they mean, Mom? Why are they mad at each other?" She turned and mouthed, 'It's okay,' to Sarah before she'd successfully lured Ben from the adult conversation sure to follow.

"I shouldn't have come," Zelman decided, as she blew out a long breath. "They're arguing over FBI versus CIA matters, because I'm here. I guess this is where I should apologize, since – "

"Absolutely not!" Rhoda said, her tone decisive. "Those two get into a yelling match at least once a year, usually over politics. In case John didn't mention it, Andy's a Republican," she explained. "Last year, we were ready to throw cold water on both of them."

"Oh, yeah…" Brenda chimed in, remembering the verbal tussle. "Andy made some kind of snide comment about President Kennedy's extramarital affairs. Something very rude about Marilyn Monroe, lipstick and the Oval Office; Johnny was absolutely furious." The family knew John held JFK in high esteem, despite his numerous affairs, yet Andy cast additional doubt upon his past with his pointed jabs. "Bernie yelled at both of them, to make them take it outside. Didn't you, Bernie?"

"I did. Don't get me started, Bren," he said as he walked into the kitchen. "I'm sure one of these days, Andy will push his luck and Johnny will have him face-down on the ground." He knew they'd come dangerously close to that possibility, the bruising on Andy's face a silent testament.

"Did they damage anything except their egos this time?" Ruth asked pithily, as Bernie reached into the freezer for two bags of frozen vegetables. She knew what had happened the moment he took out peas and corn, wrapping each bag in paper towels. "Remind those two, if I have to go out there I'm knocking both their noodles together," she said with a long sigh. "I'm still able to make those boys very unhappy."

Bernie's expression told everybody that no one wanted to see Ruth Munch take both men to task. "Johnny's hand is a little sore, but no harm done," he answered. "Andy needs these for his cheek and the back of his head. He's dented but not damaged." Bernard caught Sarah's worried gaze. He felt sorry this was her initiation into what went on between those two almost every year. "Don't worry about Johnny, Sarah. Andy goaded him, pushed him too far and got what he deserved. Now that they've exhausted their excess testosterone, everything's fine."

"I'll take your word for it," she replied, a doubtful look on her face as she leaned against the counter. She wanted to go out there and settle the FBI versus CIA rivalry once and for all, but knew better than to mix in.

"Do you know what Ben was talking about?" Ruth asked. "'Spooks' and 'ghosts'? What's all that?"

"FBI agents are known as 'spooks' by other Federal agencies. 'Ghosts' are how most other Feds refer to CIA agents," Sarah explained. "It's a long-running feud with a storied history, something I wasn't completely aware of until I was at Quantico, in training."

"But you're not FBI anymore," Ruth replied, taking a sip of tea. "Why would he think you're still with them?"

"Technically, I'm still listed with them as a 'consultant,'" she answered, "but as far as I'm concerned, I retired from the FBI last year. I've never had much patience for inter-agency squabbles." She sighed and shook her head, wondering how John was doing – if he'd broken anything when he punched his cousin.

"Andy's pig-headed," Brenda said. "He latches on to the most ridiculous stuff to argue about. Those two got started on black helicopters once. John left the house and didn't come back for hours, he was so mad."

"Sarah, you don't have to worry," Rhoda said. "If they weren't arguing about you, they'd find something else. It's how the boys blow off steam." She poured herself a cup of coffee, looked disdainfully at the sugar and finally gave in. "They argue, they yell, then both of them come back into the house and everything's fine. It's almost family tradition."

"See? Like Rhoda said, you have nothing to worry about," Ruth seconded. "Don't apologize for something that isn't your fault, dear."

"You're right. After all," Sarah replied, "who am I to break tradition?"

O0O

Andy Munch not only knew there was a Java Mama not far from the house, he had already called to be sure it was open. He saw Sarah coming out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dishtowel. "Sarah, you wouldn't happen to want a shot of caffeine right about now, would you?"

She though about it for a second, then forced a smile. "Sure. Is there a place open today?"

"I know a place," he replied, "and yes, they're open. Grab your coat, we'll go."

Zelman put the dishtowel down, got her coat and looked across the room at John. Their gaze met for a moment, then she suddenly knew what the little coffee break was all about. Time for the government wonk to grill me like a salmon, she thought wryly. Won't he be surprised.

Andy helped her on with her coat and held the door for her. Ever the gentleman, John thought cynically, watching them leave. She was suddenly out of his reach, something he never got used to, especially now with Andy almost bordering on contempt for her.

"Thought maybe you'd like to blow this joint for a little while," Munch offered. "All those questions my people ask, it must be pretty daunting." He pulled his seatbelt over and started the car, pulling away from the curb as John watched from inside.

She laughed mirthlessly, not entirely surprised by the assumption. "It was actually kind of fun, all the questions," she decided. "You don't have to pretend this isn't your turn, Andy," she said, careful to keep her tone even. "I expected you to make time to be here, since I know you've run my FBI jacket – even though you broke at least three privacy regulations to do so." The gloves were off, John wasn't here and she refused to let him slide after thoroughly invading her privacy.

"Touché, Special Agent Zelman," he said, a measure of appreciation in his voice. "Johnny told me you'd know. Now you're busting me on it, which is nothing less than I deserve." He sighed, having hoped he'd got away with it while she was busy with NYPD business. "You're right, Zelman, this is my turn. You didn't think you'd come here and not see me, did you?" He looked at her for a brief moment and actually smiled. "You scanned faces on a restricted database, then I.D.'d me. Mazel Tov." He gave a derisive snort, before he continued. "You hid it from John that you knew who I was, didn't you? Nothing like a little lie of omission."

"Right… Talk to me about lies, Andy." She smirked, glad they were taking the opportunity to clear the air. "Of course I did; I also knew you'd make time to be back in Baltimore, because of my relationship with John," she assured him. "You and I made each other at first glance. Nice barbs over dinner, the only thing you didn't mention was that we met as unnamed informants on the Korovsky sex trafficking case in Chicago. Remind me to give you a gold star for your efforts." Nice to know you can keep your trap shut at least a little bit, she thought, reminding herself she was on his turf now and not hers. "You also I.D.'d me when John mentioned my name…just in case."

"Of course I did -- and it's nice to know my handsome face was so memorable," he replied, looking for the coffee house among the shops in the closest shopping center. "Want to discuss it here in the car or over coffee?"

She spotted it first and pointed it out. "This is a government-issued vehicle. No way am I discussing anything while we're in it." She looked at him as if he were utterly stupid.

"Your paranoia is running overtime, Sarah. It probably gives Johnny's a run for the money," he said. "This car is not wired. And furthermore, because I know it's crossed your mind, I'm not wearing a wire, either." He knew how an FBI agent's mind worked, or at least he thought he did. He would have wondered the same thing, had they taken her car instead. It was the nature of their business to be highly suspicious of everyone and everything.

"We're here, we may as well talk over coffee," she replied, getting out of the car. He came over to her side, as they started for the door. There, in the middle of an almost deserted parking lot, she was finally face to face with him. She glared at him with open contempt, a Bureau to Agency eyefuck in the worst definition of the word. "Before we go inside, tell me who ran my jacket for you, since it's classified above your clearance."

He shrugged, trying to hide the fact she'd nailed him. "You're pretty sharp. I've already underestimated you," he said appreciatively. "The guy who replaced DiMarco, he's the one who ran it on my request. Happy now?"

"You haven't begun to see the depths of my unhappiness, Andy," she snapped, in a tone which caught him off guard. "My, my, my…that didn't take long at all, getting someone so high up to do your dirty work. Did he hook you for a return favor? Or did he jump agencies and join the CIA for a 'cush job' afterward?" She saw a car moving slowly toward them, shot the driver a look and he turned down an empty row of parking to get out of their way.

Andy caught himself before he laughed at her effect on the stunned Toyota driver. She seemed taller than five and a half feet, her darkened Transitions no doubt swaying his opinion of her appearance. "He's still with the Feebs. We knew each other from Quantico," he answered. "We had a few training seminars together, got to be buddy-buddy you could say."

"How nice for you," she replied. "Run it again and I'll make sure it becomes an issue, regardless of your being a Munch." She started for the front door of Java Mama, ready to fuel her anger with a generous amount of espresso in something warm and frothy.

He tried for his best earnest expression, aware his blue eyes usually conveyed a sense of honesty. "It was an underhanded thing to do," he admitted. "But I had to know." He held the door for her as they lowered their voices.

"Thus my point. You didn't have to know; what's more, you didn't have the right to know." She looked up at the large dry-erase board of selections, remembering what John had brought her at the little place in the supermarket, before they shopped. "A large Café Borgia, please. Low-fat milk, a third shot of espresso and light on the whipped cream."

"Understood," Andy pressed quietly, glancing up at the menu. "I'm sorry, I just – "

"Yeah, right." She nudged him as she nodded her head toward the menu. "First things first."

"I'll have a large of whatever you're brewing, black, instead of some frilly little flavored swill," he decided, reaching for his wallet. "Hers is on my tab, by the way."

"That'll be a frigid day in Hell. I'm paying for my own," she corrected, pushing over a five-dollar bill she'd already removed from her purse.

The fellow behind the counter rang up their drinks, gave each their change and motioned toward the padded leather seats near the fireplace. "Have a seat, if you'd like. I'll bring you your coffee. It'll take a couple minutes."

They saw a couple of padded leather chairs to either side of a small table, next to the warmth of a fireplace. As they sat down across from each other, Sarah shook her head. "Andy, do whatever you will, but don't ever lie to me. You're not contrite, so don't pretend. That bullshit may fly with your cousin, but it's wasted on me."

"Awwwww… Aren't you quite the little badass? Alright, I'll admit it then. I did it and I'm not sorry in the least." Almost as tall as John, Andy settled comfortably in the chair and crossed his long legs. "Cited for bravery twice, you took a bullet for your boss at least once, you worked mostly VICAP task force assignments in high-risk situations – almost always related to special victims – and weapons profiling is your veritable niche market when it comes to police work. Now you're on the streets again, but with NYPD, and so many strings were pulled you didn't have to do time as a uniform."

"Is there a point to this, aside from an inventory of my time on the job?"

He met her tight smile with his own, as he struggled to keep their discussion civil. Fortunately, there were only three other people in the coffee house, thus they didn't run the risk of anyone eavesdropping. "Yeah, you bet there is. I don't think you're brave, I think you're careless," he asserted, nodding his thanks as his coffee was placed on the table in front of him. "Most cops go through their entire careers – long careers – without being shot. You're either unlucky or you have a death wish."

Sarah murmured her thanks to the young man who served them, leaving her ornate mug of Café Borgia on the table to cool slightly. "Or, I had a very dangerous job with the FBI and still have one with the NYPD. I'm sure with your narrow point of view, the thought never crossed your mind," she said hotly. "Until you've caught a bullet for someone instead of telling their wife they're laid out at the morgue, don't accuse me of anything you can't back up with your own work history."

"Everyone at the Agency knows the Feebs are a gun culture, but you don't have to prove it by getting hit," he countered, taking a long sip of coffee.

She almost smirked at him, launching a verbal jab of her own. "Everyone at the FBI knows CIA agents are chair-hugging, arrogant bureaucrats, but you don't have to prove that by being an ass. Or do you?"

"Same smart mouth on you, exactly like I remember. I'm sure your cunning linguistic skills thrill Johnny over and over." He wasn't jealous per se, but he was still stinging from his argument with his cousin. As far as he was concerned, Zelman could certainly defend herself with no help from John.

She carefully sipped her latte for a moment, allowing the silence to stretch before she replied. "I'm only going to warn you one time, Munch – do not cross swords with me, verbally or otherwise," she warned, keeping her voice lowered. "You've had your way once, but it's highly unlikely to happen again, especially when it comes to my relationship with John."

"Going on the defensive already, Zelman?" he asked, feigning surprise. "We're here for a little friendly conversation, nothing more. Don't challenge me to draw a line in the sand, Sarah."

"You already have. The moment you broke Federal employment and privacy laws to run my jacket, you overstepped your bounds and opened yourself up to charges," she informed him. "You're mistaken if you think I won't use it against you, if I have to. Hiding behind John isn't going to save you or your career, when push comes to shove." She was glad there was warmth from the fireplace nearby, because she felt cold inside at the thought of having to wage war against someone John deeply cared for.

"I don't have to hide behind anyone. I have reasons for thoroughly checking your background, and you could say I'm also more than a little familiar with your propensity for good ol' fashioned pissing contests," he said with confidence. "I don't crumple as easily as your perps have, even with excessive force. You won't take me down, because you'll go down in flames right beside me," he said. "Does the term 'scorched earth' mean anything to you?"

She bristled at his mention of excessive force, as he'd obviously seen the two complaints in her file. Still, she wasn't about to give him an edge. "It means you're willing to jettison your retirement pay with the Agency, among other things. Once Federal charges are filed, you can look forward to a burn notice before the end of the day," she assured him. "Are you really willing to risk your friendship with John and your relationship with your family, to prove your point? Because it will come down to that, if you keep screwing around with my personnel records." She made an effort not to give him any body language to read, forcing herself to sit up straight in the chair instead of relaxing into it and crossing her arms over her chest. "I knew exactly what you did and when, Andy. I still have plenty of contacts on the inside – and not only inside the Bureau."

He regarded her coldly, his gaze disguising the fact he was weighing his options carefully. She'd earned her codename in a variety of ways, one of them being her undeniable tendency to always capture her prey. He wanted to think she was bluffing, but some of the things he'd read in her file gave him reason to pause. "I won't concede anything here, but will you hear me out if I give you my reasons for running your jacket?"

"I'll listen to you, sure, but it doesn't mean I'll agree with your justifications."

He'd scored at least that much, for which he was grateful. "You got Johnny shot, Sarah – you almost got him killed. After everything I've read, maybe I shouldn't be surprised." He kept his tone even, despite the anger he felt over the situation as he perceived it.

"You need to check your facts, because I was not responsible for John's being hit during that VICAP mission," she replied. "If you ask him, he'll tell you I was doing my best to keep him from bleeding out before we could make it to an EMS unit."

"But whose idea was it in the first place? You're the one who's task-force happy, who always has to prove how much she knows." He carried a weapon and a backup piece, but he honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd used either for more than qualifying every six months.

"Where were you when all that came down, Andy? Because you sure as hell weren't in the States or you would have been in the loop," she said, still glad the CIA hadn't joined the party, leaving most of the heavy lifting to other agencies.

"You don't need to know where I was, let's suffice to say it was somewhere in Europe." He shook his head, the expression on his face making it clear some questions were going to go unanswered.

"The Justice Department wanted us involved, along with the U.S. Marshals; ultimately Don Cragen conveyed orders from the top brass. John and I were pinned in a firefight while we were doing our job," she explained. "It wasn't my choice; stop acting like I was the one who initiated it."

"Since what I've read seems to go with what you're telling me, I'll chalk that one up to your bad luck affecting Johnny," he decided. "Hopefully, it's the first and last time that happens."

"I can't guarantee it and you know it as well as I do," she snapped. "I always have his back, whether you believe me or not." She took a long pull from her drink, never breaking eye contact with him as she waited for him to blink first. "If I'm not there, Tutuola will be and he's every bit as capable of backing John up. No one wants to see your cousin go down in the line of duty. We both agree on that much, so let's move on to your next excuse for dissecting my career."

"Have it your way," he said, patronizing her. "Rumor has it, thanks to Doc Huang you were able to fake it through the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. Nice trick if you could do it." He knew the conversation was about to take an even darker turn, but there were things he had to know. "Either way, the question remains how you got through Quantico with your psych history. Not too many bipolar cops make it past the FBI's screening process."

Sarah almost laughed aloud, unwilling to give up her secrets without a fight. "You really think I'm capable of falsifying such a comprehensive test? How flattering," she said, smiling.

He responded to her expression with a soft huff. "You haven't answered my question."

"Nor do I intend to, when you ask me something as left-field as that. How many people have you met who could fake it through a three-hour MMPI test?" she asked, wondering if he actually had known anyone who'd admitted as much.

"I know there are people who have," he asserted, pressing the issue.

"Could I have done it? I suppose almost anything is possible," she replied, enjoying her ability to toy with him. "As for Quantico, my psych issues weren't serious enough to disqualify me – not after I was given an opportunity to prove myself." She swirled her drink and took another long sip, reveling in the taste of orange blended with chocolate. "Even the Feds gave me a fair shot, which is more than I can say for you."

He changed position in the chair, leaning forward to make his point. "Don't be flippant with me, Zelman. It could be reason enough to delve into what you and Huang were all about in those days."

"Now you're grasping at straws," she replied, struggling to maintain her composure as well as her poker face. He was dangerously close to exposing something she had yet to explain to John. She wasn't going to disclose anything until she felt the time was right; if Andy made good on his threat, she'd have no choice but take him down and end her relationship with his cousin. She would probably be asked to leave the NYPD as well.

"Not necessarily," he replied, aware he'd struck a nerve. "I know his reports always came in at crucial times in your career, NYPD included. I'd be willing to bet it wouldn't take much to dig it all up."

She gave him a thin smile, already thinking over how she'd ruin him if he even tried to make trouble for her and Huang. "Be my guest. Please, by all means, give me any excuse to make good on my promise to rip your career out from beneath you."

"Let me put it to you this way," he began earnestly, "we're on even footing now, Sarah. We obviously have enough dirt on each other to keep us from acting on our impulses. If," he qualified, "nothing changes to tip the balance of power."

At that point, she chuckled, realizing they had to come to terms before one or both of them acted rashly. It was almost ironic she was squared off once again with a CIA agent, but almost surreal he was practically family to her now. "Andy, be completely truthful with me for a moment. What's really behind all of this? Is it the case we worked together? Is it that you don't think I'm good enough for John?" she asked. "For his sake, we're going to have to come to some sort of understanding here before we kill each other. Figuratively or literally," she added, not entirely sure she was kidding.

"I'd like to work this out, too. Do you think I'm enjoying this, knowing how much you mean to Johnny?" he asked. "It all has a lot less to do with the case in Chicago – at this point, I don't care about that anymore. What I do care about is Johnny's wellbeing. It's not so much whether you're 'good enough' for him, but rather if you're truly in the relationship for keeps." His tone was clearly anguished; it was obvious he wanted to make sure his cousin wasn't chasing another doomed romance, certainly not for merely the sake of physical pleasure. "I'm not here to hate you, Sarah, whether you believe me at this point or not. I'm here to look out for Johnny. You're in a different league than all of the other women he's known – sometimes, I'm not sure he knows how to handle it."

"He's doing a lot better at this than you give him credit for, Andy." She thought he was; perhaps there was more to it than she realized.

"On the outside, maybe. Inside, he's still a little overwhelmed by it all, at least it's how he's seemed when I've talked with him," he admitted, leaning back in his chair in an effort to relax. "He brought you here as another way to cement your relationship and it's worked. You fit in well with my family, there's no doubt about it." He raised his coffee cup slightly and nodded, acknowledging the fact with his gesture. "Even so, I'm still worried about Johnny."

"In what way?" she wondered aloud. "I didn't come here to ingratiate myself, I agreed to be here because it's important to him." Now she was the one leaning forward in her chair, meeting Andy's gaze once more.

"I know you didn't, Sarah – even though it was a shock to me when you called my Aunt Ruthie 'mom.' You have to know we're all wondering about you because of his previous track record." He put down his coffee mug and nodded as the young man came from behind the counter and refilled it. "The last thing I want is for Johnny to get into a situation that'll break his heart again. He's been through four marriages, God knows how many relationships, and I'm starting to worry he'll crack if things keep going badly for him." He looked her straight in the eye, pointed directly at her and said, "You flake out on him and he'll go over the edge. There won't be anything left for him at that point."

"This is why you delved into my psych history, then," she stated, finally beginning to understand the severity of the situation. "You wanted to make sure I was stable enough to deal with his quirks, rather than leave him at the first sign of trouble?"

"That's a very large part of it, yes." God how he wanted a cigarette, merely the thought of John's previous romantic depressions tearing at his nerves. He still had no clue how this one would turn out, whether Zelman could be trusted to remain true to John despite his cousin's assurances.

"You wanted to make sure he knew about my sessions with George Huang. What, you thought I'd be able to hide that from John? Maybe take my psych meds on the sly or something?" She smiled wryly, more than ready to spar with him until after sunset if necessary.

"I didn't know you. I couldn't be sure, Sarah. When it comes down to it, I still don't know you," he said. "Some people would do anything to keep that kind of information secret, especially when they're in a serious relationship." He took a sip of coffee as he looked at her over the rim of the mug, searching for some sign she'd never hurt John emotionally.

"Yeah, 'some people' would, but I'm not one of those. I've been completely open with John about everything – Stranahan, the psych issues, all of it." She drained her Borgia, then motioned to the fellow behind the counter as she mouthed, 'decaf.' Despite the coffeehouse remaining open to provide holiday respite for another two hours, they were the only ones inside.

"It means a lot to me, your having come clean with him about it all. I suppose you must love him, I'm happy for him in that regard." After the brunt of his conversation with her, he genuinely was pleased John had found her. Despite his misgivings, his cousin looked better and seemed happier than he'd been in a very long time. "He's practically a brother to me; I know you realize how close we are. We have our battles, but we always have each other's back. No exceptions."

She softly murmured her thanks as her cup was filled with decaf coffee. "I'm glad, Andy. He needs someone like you, because he's spent his life looking out for everyone else. Bernie, his mom, his wives, his co-workers… He gives everything he's got, twenty-four seven." She moved closer to the edge of her chair, nearly close enough to reach across the table and put her hand on his arm. "I'm not here to make additional demands on him, I just want to love him unconditionally and do whatever I can to protect him when we're working together."

"Hearing you say that makes me feel a lot better, Sarah," Andy replied, deeply relieved. "You didn't know the women he's been with before, which is why you can't have any idea how much the family worries about him. Kooks, money-grubbers, gold-diggers, tramps – finally he gets involved with a 'nice Jewish girl' and we all wonder how he managed to do the right thing." He shook his head, still wondering himself. "A lot of the family is baffled, I have to tell you."

"You're not entirely convinced he's done the right thing. At least, not yet," she added hesitantly.

"Maybe I will be, eventually," he admitted, no rancor in his tone. "He's no Prince Charming, you know. He's got a lot of odd quirks but by what he's said, the two of you…your quirks seem to mesh pretty well." He was glad, because after John and Gwen married, his eccentricities quickly became major issues to her – and her hawkish mother. With relationships after Gwen, it seemed to have all gone downhill from that point. John's failing had been, he equated love with sex. More so, it took him a long time to realize his wives' willingness to stay had been in direct proportion to how much of his money they could spend. It had hurt Andy deeply as he'd watched it all play out over the past few years.

"We're pretty solid in that regard. We're both conspiracy wonks, share a common thread because we're OCD among other things…if that's what you mean," Sarah acknowledged. "It works out well, both of us having the major and minor issues in kind. There haven't been any major surprises, at least not yet."

"There is that, plus – " He hesitated, momentarily struggling with how he wanted to word things.

She gave him a long moment to find his verbal footing, then said, "Spill it, Andy. I'm not into mysteries unless I'm working."

"You know he has bouts of depression, don't you?" he asked. "Which is another reason why I wanted to know about your psych profile. If the two of you cycle into the same downturn, it could be a disaster." He wished he didn't have to even think about such a scenario, yet there was no choice but face it, considering how often he'd seen his father grapple with depression.

"He's told me about it, yes, what he refers to as his 'bouts of melancholy.' I've seen it happen, too," she admitted, taking a sip of coffee. "I'm not the only one who's had sessions with Dr. Huang. John's not exactly someone who wants to sit around and talk about his feelings, though." She fervently wished there were times when he would, George being an even better – and more effective – sounding board than she could provide him.

"I'm aware of his history and what he's done to straighten himself out, so to speak. You two do seem to have it all figured out – at least for now." Andy politely waved off another refill, having had enough caffeine to suit him for the moment.

"I'll be with John until he decides he doesn't want me anymore," Sarah assured him. "I'm in it for the long-term, Andy. I don't enter into relationships with anything less than everything I've got. I stuck it out with Stranahan for five years and we didn't have half as much in common."

"The cowboy. Mister Hotshot, the U.S. Marshal. I heard all about him. Supposedly, he and Johnny are friends now, more or less." The dubious look on his face made her wonder what John had said, or if Andy had drawn his own conclusions without benefit of his cousin's input.

"Danny's no longer a threat, so yeah," she replied. "They'll talk shop, compare cases, the usual conversation cops have when they're hanging out. They're both a couple of prideful cats, but they're not competing now…it keeps them friendly." She finally allowed herself to stretch some of the stiffness from her muscles as she settled back in the chair.

"Maybe I'm starting to get why Johnny would compete for you, if he had to," he admitted cautiously. "You think we could ever be friends? Maybe call a truce or something? At least around Johnny."

His question sounded genuine enough for her to consider seriously. "Now that I know the whys and wherefores of your having run my jacket, I'm a little less pissed about it. I think we can maintain our civility, especially for John's sake," she said. "Who knows, Andy? We may yet become friends." She paused, giving even more consideration to what he proposed. "I wouldn't rule it out, despite the interagency rivalry – don't even try to deny it."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. It'll always be there, no matter how long you're with NYPD. You started a spook, you'll always be a spook," he replied good-naturedly. "You're never completely out of the Feebs, no matter what you think. Johnny's always a little afraid they'll call you back."

"I'm not going back without one hell of a fight," she replied. "As for you, don't get any ideas about pulling more of your 'ghost' crap on me. We clear on that?" She stood, eying him. He was good looking despite the stresses of his job, even with his gray hair retreating well above his initial hairline he still hand the Munch genes for handsomeness within him.

"For now. Situations change, people change," he said, hedging his bets. He stood, too, stretching to force the stiffness from his arms and legs.

"I'll let you slide for now, merely for John's sake. We should be getting back, before the rest of the tribe thinks you've taken me out for a New Jersey bat mitzvah," she said, laughing a bit at last.

Andy chuckled, wondering how soon John had expected them back as he glanced at his watch. "If I wanted to do you in, I'd have to shake you loose from Johnny first. I can't get anything past him; he must have thought I was going to spike your latte." He'd moved directly in front of her, taking care not to violate her personal space as they spoke.

"Why do you think I bought my own?" she asked, a wide smile on her face.

He huffed, for once his blue eyes looked upon her warmly. "I think I could almost like you, Tigress." He held the door for her as they walked outside, both of them cold as the briskness of late afternoon took hold.

She chastised him lightly as the breeze ruffled her short hair. "First, Andy, you'll have to earn the right to use my codename."

"You'll be surprised how quickly it'll happen. Just you wait," he said. They were back in the parking lot where the conversation began, fewer cars in front of the stores as lights could almost be seen inside the supermarket across the lot. "Truce?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah. Truce." She reached out and they shook hands, more like family than the two Federal agents they were when they walked in.

O0O

It was six-thirty when Zelman looked outside and saw light shining through the windows of the garage door. She knew Ruth was busy saying goodbye to some of the more distant family and friends, who needed to be on the road before it got too much later. John, Andy, Bernie and Ben were playing a hotly contested game of Scrabble, insisting much of their made-up gibberish constituted legitimate words in someone's native tongue. Others were enjoying a last cup of coffee, chatting, catching up on jobs, families, kids, pets and what were considered the important events of the past several months.

Sarah slipped out the back door and walked to the garage, intending to open the door and shut off the light. She turned the knob, pushed open the door, looked for the light switch and didn't see one. Illumination came from a hanging fluorescent fixture above an old workbench, the rusted chain dripping down over the dingy white housing of the light.

She made her way around Ruth's Pontiac, parked in the center. As she walked around the front of the car, she almost tripped as she stopped in her tracks. Blood. The ferrous scent of blood was so overpowering, she had a faint metallic taste in her mouth.

Oh, god…no.

Sarah saw the dark, spreading slickness on the concrete floor of the garage. Wet blood had begun to congeal. A forceful splatter pattern had sprayed outward and upward from the concrete, the raw light exposing both blood and tissue. She didn't have to be a cop to recognize it for what it was, either. She felt the air escape from her lungs as if she'd been punched in the solar plexus, her subsequent gasp bringing her no intake of oxygen.

Dizzy, shaking uncontrollably, doubled over as she struggled to breathe, she slid down one leg of the workbench to the cold cement floor. Mere inches from her, she saw a police-issue Smith & Wesson .38 caliber, the pungent smell of a recently fired round hung in the unmoving air, the spent casing a dull piece of metal not far from its source.

A man in Baltimore PD blues stared at her with sightless dark eyes, open and unblinking. His hat had been cast aside as he'd fallen into a huddled mass, exposing his thick salt and pepper hair wet with blood. The brass breastplate above his badge read, "D. Munch."

"David, why?" Zelman whispered, feeling her eyes brim over, tears streaking hot and wet down her cheeks. "He never hated you, he always loved you… They all adored you… Why did you leave?" She pulled her knees to her chest, put her head down and sobbed, completely unable to move.

O0O

"Triple bonus points for me, thanks to the British word 'zed,'" John said, triumphant. He checked his watch, wondering how long they'd been playing. He'd emptied his rack, no more tiles in the draw pile. With a lot of effort and ingenuity, he'd won.

"Nice work, Mister Vocabulary," Andy said, reaching over the card table to shake his hand. "Next game, we're playing 'team Scrabble,' and it's you and me." They all laughed at the thought, sure Ben could beat them all easily if he set his mind to it.

"Bernie, have you seen Sarah?" John asked, realizing he hadn't seen her in over an hour. "I know Andy didn't throw her in the water, because she was dry when he deigned to bring her back." He elbowed his cousin, making him grin widely.

"If anybody was going into the harbor, it would have been me," Andy replied, with a hint of respect for Sarah's ability to go head to head with anyone. "Luckily, she and I worked things out before she decided the world could do without another Munch." He wasn't entirely joking, considering their heated exchange, which had tempered to grudging acceptance of each other.

"I haven't seen her since she came back and changed into her jeans," Bernie replied. "Maybe she's in the backyard. Sunset wasn't all that long ago, Johnny, she might be out there."

"I'll check," John decided, growing concerned. "You guys go ahead and start another game. I'll catch up with you in a little while." Bernie might be right, he thought, knowing there were times when Zelman simply craved a few minutes away from everyone. It was the same reason she'd go up to the roof when they were at the precinct; she had to have a moment to two of solitude.

"I could help you find Aunt Sarah, Uncle John," he replied. "Mom says I'm good at finding people and things. Daddy says I'm talented at it." He started to get up, ready to go off wherever John went. He sat back down when he felt his father tug at his sleeve. "I found you and Aunt Sarah earlier."

"Thanks, squirt, but this is a mystery I'd better solve on my own," John said, a cue Bernie recognized to keep Ben inside, no matter what.

He went first to their room, in case she'd needed a well-deserved respite from everyone. The bed was empty, the bedspread without even the smallest wrinkle. Walking toward the bathroom, he noticed the door was open.

John went to the back door and looked through the window. Instantly, his blood ran cold. There was a light on in the garage, the side door slightly open. "Damn it to hell!" he exclaimed, rushing outside and bolting toward the light source.

A thin beam of light escaped from the side door. He shoved it open, listened carefully, recognizing the muffled crying as Zelman's. "Sarah? Sarah!" He walked around to the front of his mother's car, her trembling form curled almost in a ball between the Pontiac and workbench.

"Oh, God… This is my fault," he said softly, kneeling next to her. "Sweetie…" He gently pulled her up, facing him. "I'm sorry, babe…I'm so sorry. Come on, let's get you out of here." He helped her to stand, reaching up to turn out the light before they made their way out of the darkened garage. Light from a streetlamp came in through the garage door windows, enough to aid Munch as he led Zelman out the side door.

He walked with her to the picnic table, sat her down and then straddled the bench, pulling her close. "I should have warned you," he whispered, his arms around her protectively. "I didn't think you'd ever go in there. It wasn't something I wanted you to have in your head."

"I know now," she said, trying to stop her tears. "I know what you saw," she said, almost choking. "Now we both know what happened…all of it." She hid her face against his chest, unable to stop crying, shaking so hard against him, he tightened his hold on her. "You look so much like your father… I thought… It looked like you'd – "

"Sarah…shhhhhh… I'll never go out that way, sweetie, I promise you," he vowed. He tried to wipe away some of her tears, furious at himself for not telling her where his father had ended his life. He'd taken it for granted she'd never need to be near the garage, let alone have reason to walk inside. He'd convinced himself enough time had passed; even if she had an excuse to go in, time would have washed away the negative energy of a tragedy so long ago. He'd been fooling himself at her expense each time he came up with another reason not to tell her.

"Will you be okay for a couple minutes? I need to go inside, but I'll be right back."

"Yeah. I think so." She pulled away from him, folding her arms as she lay her head down on the table. "If anyone asks, tell them I have a headache, okay?"

"Okay." He sighed, trying to focus on how best to help her, the damage having been done.

John went inside, hoping no one would see him or question him about Sarah's whereabouts. He got into her pilot's bag, took out one of her tranquillizers and slipped it into his pocket. From there, into the bathroom to wring out a washcloth in cold water. He ran the water until it was almost ice cold, filling a glass to take with him.

She looked up as he returned and took his place beside her on the bench.

"I brought you something." He fished in his pocket for the small rectangular pill, a Xanax prescribed for her by George Huang. He placed it in her palm as she took the glass of water from him. Taking the tranq, she gulped cold water until there was no more. "Want me to get you another glass?"

"No, thanks. That helped." She allowed herself to be pulled back against him, the back of her head on his shoulder.

"This should help, too," he said. John carefully took off her glasses and placed the cold compress over her eyes, in hopes it would not only make her feel better but disguise the fact she'd been in tears. He was painfully aware she wanted no one, under any circumstances, to see her crying or to think she might have been. Nor did either of them want speculation they'd had an argument, the most logical reason for her reddened eyes and face.

He was lost in regret, his head against hers, when he was jolted by Ben's voice behind him.

"Uncle John, what's wrong with Aunt Sarah?" Ben asked, walking around them to climb up on the bench. He sat on the tabletop, expecting an answer as he watched her carefully. "Is she sick?"

"She has a headache, Ben," he answered. "It'll go away in a few minutes, don't worry."

"Is there anything I can do?" Bernie asked, sitting down on the bench across the table from them. He'd tried to keep his son indoors, but curiosity and concern had gotten the better of both of them.

"I'm okay," Sarah insisted. "I thought it was a migraine, but it's easing up. John always knows what to do when this happens." She sat up straighter and took off the compress as he reluctantly relinquished his hold. She put on her glasses once more, blinking in the low light. "Thanks, sweetheart," she said, as he lightly kissed the back of her neck. "I think I'll go inside and grab a couple Tylenol."

"I know where they are," Ben said. "C'mon, I'll show you. I'm not allowed to touch them, but I know where Bubbe Ruthie keeps them." He pulled on her hand as she got up and followed him inside.

After the door closed behind them, Bernie let out a long sigh. "You had a fight. Johnny, of all the days to bring her to tears, this wasn't supposed to be one of them."

"We did not have a fight," John corrected him. "It might have been less traumatic if we had. She doesn't cry on those rare occasions when we argue, instead she stands her ground and gives me absolute hell." He carefully swung around on the bench, to face his brother across the table. "If I tell you what happened, it had better stay between me, you and Marianne – no one else, definitely not Mom." He hadn't quite made up his mind if he'd even tell his brother, since he wasn't convinced Bernie would believe him.

"I give you my word, Johnny," he replied solemnly.

His head lowered, he gave great thought to his choice of words. "Bernie, you told me once you knew Munch Mortuary was haunted. Do you still think it is?"

"Without question. Marianne and I have both seen more than our share of apparitions," he answered. "Even Ben has seen them before and he's not frightened. None seem harmful or malevolent, most are simply lost for a short time until they find their way." Bernard Munch, like his older brother, was markedly perceptive, able to make leaps in logic most people outside his immediate circle of family and friends couldn't comprehend. "This isn't about the shop, it's about the garage."

"Yes," John answered, his voice barely able to be heard.

"About a year after it happened, I saw Dad," Bernie admitted, trying not to let emotion color his voice. "I didn't tell you, because I didn't want to reopen all the pain. Besides, back then people thought children saw what they wanted to see – it was always fobbed off as wishful thinking."

John looked up, studying his brother's face. "You should have told me, Bernie. Around the same time, I saw him too, for an instant. He was wearing his dress blues." He gazed up at the sky for a moment, admiring the stars as he wondered exactly where his father's spirit rested…or if it did. "When I saw him, he smiled at me. Before I could blink, he was gone, but I'll never forget the expression on his face as long as I'm alive."

"Sarah saw him, too, didn't she?" Bernie asked, his face pale despite the darkness. "Before you answer, be aware it's not going to change how I feel about her. I'm not going to think she's crazy, because seeing the dead isn't all that uncommon, especially in our careers."

"I'm glad you qualified it, Bernie, because yeah. Yeah, she did." John steepled his hands, then interlocked his fingers as he gathered the courage to continue. "She saw him…immediately after." He let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, kicking himself once more for not having warned her. "She has a quirk. Sometime, I should tell you about it, since it follows along with our family's odd association with death."

"Jake and Andy are watching television with Uncle Jacob, Johnny. If there's something you'd like to tell me, there's no time like right now."

O0O

John Munch stood in front of his mother's mahogany chest of drawers, staring at a portrait of his father. Sergeant David Aaron Munch looked back, dark brown eyes shining, thick salt and pepper hair almost reaching the collar of his BPD blues. He stood behind his wife, who was seated, her blue paisley dress mute commentary on the fashions of the time. Ruth had never looked happier, nor more beautiful, in that fleeting moment.

They posed for the photo two years before David had succumbed to his long-fought depression, marked by occasional periods in which he'd work for two or three days straight, unable to sleep between shifts, pacing the floor. It didn't take much concentration for John to recall the repeated creaking of living room's oak, the year that photo had been taken, as he lay in bed at the age of eleven. He was left wondering once again what case had burrowed into his father's head and refused to let go. It happened often, his father's pacing, the sound of the wood floors accentuating David Munch's restlessness.

John looked even more closely at the photo and noticed the medals above his father's badge, trinkets taken off before the burial, given to his mother in a small box of bird's eye maple, lined with red velvet. If he looked, he knew he'd find them in the center drawer of her desk. Each year, on the anniversary of David's death, Ruth opened the box to run her finger along the edges of his badge. Each year on that day, she'd struggle to hide her tears from the boys as she remembered how much she and her husband loved each other.

He hadn't been laid to rest – and how John prayed almost every night that his father had in fact found rest – in his uniform blues, as there was no official police ceremony for those officers who chose to take their own life. With no honor guard, with the stigma of a Jew having made the conscious decision to destroy himself and leave his wife behind to raise their sons alone, he had been lowered into the ground wearing a dark suit. His BPD dress uniform still hung in the bedroom closet; a reminder that Ruth Munch still found merit in the work her beloved husband had done, before life became too much for him to bear.

Over the years, John appreciated how his mother hadn't hidden family photos or buried all talk of his father with his pine casket in Pikesville's Jewish cemetery, Ahavai Shalom. Slowly, after they had worked through their grief together, she told the boys more and more about their dad. As John contemplated the portrait, he knew he'd inherited his father's off-beat sense of humor, as well as his love of words, his rapier wit and most of his features. He also realized just how much he'd stepped into the role of protector and mentor, in keeping the family from falling apart in its sorrow.

He carried the burden of such responsibility silently, for the most part, unwilling to discuss it with Bernie to spare him any additional guilt. Bernie had been so young, it had been hard for him at such an age to wrap his head around why anyone would choose a violent death, let alone their father whom they thought of as invincible. In later years, they'd discussed it, at Bernie's urging. John knew the reasons were two-fold; Bernie needed to know every finite detail of what had taken place, but he also wanted his older brother to unburden himself for the sake of self-preservation.

Over the past year, too much grief having been rekindled by the loss of friends and colleagues in the tragedy of September eleventh, he had learned Sarah was in many ways a kindred spirit. He'd never felt comfortable talking about it before, but with her it was different. Death, loss and despair had ripped away her childhood as well, her father murdered under circumstances so suspicious she rarely breathed a word about whom she felt was responsible. He knew, deep within his heart, she had possibly solved the case but hadn't wanted to divulge the outcome, lest it tear to shreds what was left of her family.

She also struggled with the demons of bipolar disorder and thoughts of suicide to stop the pain, which he knew had been what really killed his father. There were times when Sarah paced in the evenings, her mania every bit as intense as those sleepless nights his father spent walking the floors. John appreciated what his mother went through even more now, knowing how frustrated she must have been in trying to console his father during his depths of despair. How hard it had to have been for his father to hide it from his fellow officers, to appear 'stable' at all costs. John couldn't blame his father anymore, but in many ways he still blamed himself.

Violence. Mysteries. Sorrow. Somehow, in their bonding, they had found happiness through the acts of processing their grief together. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling he'd stepped over the line and caused her anguish, by not having told her where – when he had told her how. Sarah and Bernie both assured him her reaction had been meant to happen, to give her an even deeper understanding of what he'd suffered for so long. It didn't ease his mind; instead, it made him feel as if he'd failed her.

He heard the water in the shower stop running, the sudden quiet breaking his reverie. She'd be out of the bathroom soon, smelling of Dove soap and Herbal Essence shampoo, toweled almost dry, slightly damp and ready to cuddle against him.

John pulled back the covers and got into bed, pretending to read a worn softbound copy of Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past," to keep her from knowing he'd been staring at his father's face for over twenty minutes. He chuckled almost silently, because no matter what he did to cover it, she'd know. Somehow, he reminded himself, she always knew.

"Hey," she said softly, getting into bed. "We lived through Thanksgiving with only one fight, one confrontation and one incident. The china and crystal are fully intact, too." She snuggled against him, feeling how taut his muscles were. "We also discovered your nephew is a lady-killer, like every other man in the fine tradition of Munch males."

He put the book on the bedside table and smiled. "How does it feel to be an aunt?" he asked, taking off his glasses and hers, before he turned out the lamp. "If he could steal you away from me, I think he'd try."

"Ben's too adorable for words. I'm looking forward to tomorrow, since we'll have him with us for the entire day." She wrapped her arms around John as he turned on his side, facing her. "Andy, on the other hand, probably thinks you're a brave soul. I know he's not fond of me, but I'm willing to accept it if you are," she said, keeping her tone light.

"Believe me, he gave me an earful – before you two went for coffee," John replied, more amused than anything. "He thinks I've gotten my heart set on a badass who'll emotionally destroy me, who's lured me into a relationship that will be my ultimate undoing. Personally, I think he's full of himself and full of crap, but like everyone else in my family he means well." He sighed, trying to release the tensions of the day. "I know he tried to bully you, because that's his standard operating procedure. Please tell me he wasn't too much of a pain in the ass, Sarah."

"He'll be fine… We worked everything out, more or less," she assured him. "Basically, I laid it all out for him about the two of us and made him realize if he ever ran my jacket again without permission, I'd castrate him – and keep his cojones in a display case for all his little CIA buddies to see."

John laughed, hoping it wouldn't wake his mom. "When I told him to talk with you, I knew it would turn out that way. I love him like a brother, but you have no idea what I would have given to see the look on his face when you verbally neutered him. He's very competitive and more than a little misogynistic. No one knows where it comes from, because he certainly wasn't raised that way."

"Agency culture has changed him, but it's not a terminal condition. I can deal with him, John, don't worry."

"You've been dealing with a lot, Sarah. About earlier, I'm – "

"Shhhhhh… Not. Another. Word." She punctuated it with a kiss, stroking the muscles in his neck in hopes of relaxing him. "As your mom would say, you don't need to apologize, because you didn't do anything wrong."

"It was a sin of omission," he replied softly. "I had an obligation to tell you, but I chose not to. I thought I could keep you out of the garage without saying anything, but I failed." He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a deep, despondent sigh.

"You didn't fail me, John, and you never will," she insisted. "Like I said, everything happens for a reason." She brushed her hand through his hair, kissing him lightly on the nose.

"You know how much I love you, don't you?" It was always a legitimate question, no matter how often he asked it. He held her tightly, trying to seek out her gaze in the darkness.

"I do know. It's every bit as much as I love you," she replied, her whisper warm against his ear. "Roll over for me?"

"Why, sweetie?" He already knew the answer. She was going to rub his back until he fell asleep, when he should be the one comforting her. Undoubtedly, she'd seen the photographs in the room, too. Often, she could feel his melancholy as palpably as a nurse taking someone's pulse. He knew she could sense it now, aware her touch could ease his mind and help him sleep.

"The usual," she quipped, kissing him before he turned over to face away from her. Later in the night, they'd be face to face again, his arm draped over her. She kissed the back of his neck, reveling in the residual scent of Drakkar Noir. Slowly, gently, she massaged his neck and shoulders, listening as his breathing slowed from sleep. She wasn't sure he could still feel it, but she worked her way down and rubbed his back as the tension in his muscles eased.

It wasn't long before she heard John snoring softly, deeply asleep at last. Sarah rolled over on her back, staring up in the darkness at a ceiling she could barely see. Sleep would be some time in coming for her, because her mind wouldn't let go of the image of David Munch.

…to be continued…


	11. Chapter 11

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Eleven

The scent of pancakes with maple syrup coming from Bernie and Marianne's kitchen drew John and Sarah in, as they both took a seat at the table. "Had breakfast yet?" Marianne asked, pouring more batter into her largest frying pan.

"No, we gave Mom the morning off," John replied, as Bernie got up to get extra plates, silverware and mugs for them. "I bet I could eat more pancakes than Ben this time," he said, winking at his nephew. He nodded his thanks to his brother as a place setting was arranged in front of him.

"I'll bet you can't, Uncle John!" the six year old asserted. "Mom's making them with chocolate chips and sliced bananas. Those are my favorite." His eyes went wide as a serving plate of warm brown cakes, a bowl of sliced bananas and a can of Redi-Whip was placed in the center of the table. "You first," Ben said, pushing the plate toward his uncle.

"Help yourself, you two… I'll make some extra," Marianne said, smiling. "You'll need the energy, since you've got the pocket rocket for the day." As much as she loved her son, she was glad for a few hours of respite from both him and Munch Mortuary.

"Ladies first," John said, gently correcting his nephew. "Sarah, this is where my pancake recipe originated." He forked one on to her plate, added banana slices and topped it with a healthy squirt of whipped cream.

"Wow. We're talking about a serious sugar rush here," she said, thinking how wonderful it was to not have to hurry to the precinct. She murmured her thanks to Bernie, who filled their mugs with tea as John tended to Ben's plate.

"Don't let him get away with using an entire can of whipped cream, John," Marianne warned, bringing the rest of the pancakes to the table.

"As you can tell, we're wiring him up and giving him to you," Bernie joked, well aware sugar didn't make Ben particularly hyper, as long as he had some protein with his chocolate. He put some scrambled eggs on his son's plate, too, before pouring him a glass of milk.

"Uncle John, where are we going after breakfast?" Ben asked, between bites.

"I think that depends on where you'd like to go, squirt." John offered some eggs to Sarah, before taking some himself. "We can go anywhere you want… The weather's still nice enough to go to the park and play Frisbee. Or we could go to the zoo and see the lions –maybe we'd have time for the Aquarium, too." He was hoping Ben would jump at the opportunity to go to the Baltimore Aquarium, giving him a chance to canoodle a bit with Sarah in the darkened exhibits.

"We went on trips there last month," he replied, dashing John's hopes, "and got to help them feed the giraffes at the zoo. It was fun, but some of the girls in my class were too grossed out when the baby giraffe's lips touched their hand. Lisa even screamed, she was so scared! It was awesome!"

Zelman laughed, accidentally encouraging him, as she knew his classmate had been in no real danger. She imagined the momentary chaos when the giraffe got too up close and personal with the girls. It was one of those times when she wished for a child, just as John did. "Is there a place you want to go, maybe one you don't get to visit too often?" Sarah asked, unsure of the area's attractions that would appeal to someone Ben's age. "Someplace really special?" She had been looking forward to spoiling him rotten, almost from the moment they met.

A wide smile on his face, he cast a glance at both his mom and dad. "Yeah, a place where my friend Tommy had his birthday party three weeks ago. It was the best party ever!" His mother sighed, shaking her head as if her son were a lost cause. "You know where I mean, Mom, don't you?"

"The place was unforgettable with twenty of you there," she replied, trying not to smile too much, lest it give away her decision. "I don't know, Ben. Let your father and I think this over for a little while." She took another bite of her pancakes, silently reminding herself she should spend more time at the fitness center if she was ever going to get into her 'skinny jeans.'

Bernie took a long sip of tea as he looked over the rim of the mug at his son. "Ben, remember what we talked about. Your Uncle John and Aunt Sarah aren't to be used as a cash machine, toy warehouse or buffet of junk food," he said gently, well aware of his son's current favorite place in the entire world. After Munch and Zelman had given him what had to be an expensive model of a Shelby Cobra, neither parent wanted their son to take such spoiling for granted.

"I know, Dad, I remember. But Aunt Sarah asked and it's polite to answer." He finished his milk and looked at them all, ever hopeful. "I want to go to ZipGravity. Please? It's the best skateboard park on the planet! If I can pick out anywhere, that's where I want to go." Ben finished his breakfast quickly as he eagerly awaited their decision. "I promise to wear all my safety stuff and I won't get in the way of the bigger kids." He looked hopefully to his uncle, in case some intervention was needed.

"The indoor skate park is a little pricey," Marianne said, trying to resist the urge to add more whipped cream to her breakfast. "Let me check and see if I've got enough cash on hand for you to go. Bring me my purse, please?" She gave John and Sarah a look, a signal to keep silent until Ben was out of earshot. He was out of his chair in an instant, trying not to run but walk as rapidly as he could down the hall to his parents' room.

"How much does it cost?" John asked, sure it couldn't be all that expensive. "It can't be too much or kids couldn't afford to go."

"He doesn't have to rent any equipment," Bernie replied, a bite of pancake on his fork, "but it's still about five bucks an hour. The little guy can skateboard for at least two, without breaking a sweat." He knew, after two days of being the center of attention, Ben would expect regular visits from his uncle and newly-discovered aunt.

"We're splitting it," Sarah reasoned, finished with her plate. "It's not so much. Does he go there often?" She reached over and added another Sweet N' Low to her morning caffeine.

"Not nearly often enough, if you ask him. He went a couple of months ago, on a school trip for honor students, then to his friend's party," Marianne explained. She rolled her eyes and laughed softly, casting a glance at her husband. "It's all he's talked about for two solid weeks, but we were trying not to take him until next month. On the twelfth."

_Birthday_. "Gotcha." Sarah knew how to keep secrets, her ability having been a key part of her job with the Bureau.

"Ben and at least fifteen of his closest friends," Bernie said, keeping his voice low, a surreptitious smile on his handsome features.

John, finished with his breakfast, pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet as Sarah checked her supply of ready cash. "I've got it covered. Watch this," he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Use this, too," Sarah whispered, handing him a five.

He folded them quickly as Ben came back into the room. "Here's your purse. I checked my board and it's okay. I've got my helmet and pads in my backpack," he added, hoping it would swing the decision-making process to his advantage. He stood beside his uncle's chair, ready to have him help plead his case if necessary.

"Ben, what have you got behind your ear?" John asked, concerned.

"Nothing," he replied cautiously. "Why?"

"He definitely has something back there, Johnny," Bernie said. "You'd better take a look." It was all he could do to maintain his poker face in front of his son.

"Did you forget to wash behind those big ears of yours? Which you got from me, by the way," John added, smiling.

"Uncle John, I washed. I wash behind my ears every day – and they're not that big," Ben asserted. He wondered if his uncle was suddenly losing his grip on things, because he'd taken a thorough bath before he'd gone to bed last night.

"I'll be the judge of how clean your ears are," John decided. "Let me see." He reached behind his nephew's right ear, a look of amazement on his face. "Ben! Look at you!" He opened his palm and displayed the folded money. "You're sprouting five-dollar bills!"

"Is that really mine?" Ben asked, astonished.

"It did come from behind your ear. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, or so I've heard," he said dryly. He chuckled, hearing Sarah's delighted giggling over his rudimentary legerdemain.

"Check his other ear, John – in case he's got something there, too," Zelman urged, happy to play along.

Munch reached behind Ben's left ear and easily pretended to bring a bill forward. "Ben, you're sprouting money all over the place. Look! Another five! What's five plus five equal?"

"Ten," he replied, his eyes wide as he looked into his uncle's hand. "Ten gets me two whole hours!"

"Then you'd better grab your board and your safety gear, so we can go," Sarah replied, smiling.

"I knew it! We're going to ZipGravity!" he said enthusiastically, rushing from the kitchen and down the hall to his room.

"Johnny, you're spoiling him absolutely rotten," Bernie decided. "As for you, Sarah, you're either a willing accessory to the fact and should share equal blame, or my brother has twisted you to his highly suspect means." He got up to help his wife clear the table, Ben forgetting to put his dishes in the sink before he took off to get his things. "Are you both sure you want to do this?"

"After he mentioned it yesterday, we pretty much had it planned," Sarah replied. "You two have such a great kid, he deserves it. He told me all about his grades last quarter."

"He'll make a fine detective one of these days, after he graduates from CUNY's John Jay." John had seen a copy of Ben's grades posted on the refrigerator, all marks between 90 and 100 percent. He'd been a pretty good student, too, except for high school Spanish, which had been his Waterloo.

"A detective? Nice try, Johnny," Marianne replied. "We're already saving up for his college. He's heading for medical school, unless he wants to follow in his father's footsteps." She looked at him and shook her head before loading plates and mugs into the dishwasher. "I worry enough about you. I wouldn't want my son out on the mean streets of Baltimore – or New York."

"I sense a medical examiner in the family's future," Zelman decided, aiming for the compromise. She knew Ben would have none of that, instead opting to become a cop like his uncle.

"I see a small rocket with a skateboard," Bernie said, as his son walked into the room.

"We'll have him back no later than four, in time to get ready for shul," John promised, getting up from the table. He pulled out Sarah's chair and she left the table as well.

"In one piece," Marianne insisted. "Don't let him bend the rules and skip the elbow pads." She gave Ben a look, making it clear there was to be no nonsense.

"You're not asking much, are you?" John quipped, inadvertently spurring her determination.

"Mom! I'm six years old," Ben complained, "almost a grown-up. You don't have to remind me." He shrugged eloquently, wondering how he'd get through life with such over-protective parents.

"Ben, don't encourage your uncle's temptation to let you do as you please," she said evenly. "I mean it, Johnny, he wears all of his gear the entire time." She hoped that would curtail any urge to let Ben go without anything but his helmet.

"Isn't he always fine with me? I think I'll let him teach me how to sharpen my skateboard skills," John replied, leaning his lanky frame against the counter. "When we were kids, those things were a short, narrow piece of pine on metal wheels with all the structural integrity of aluminum foil. No turns, no flipping into the air, when we hit a rock we'd become one with the sidewalk. Remember, Bernie?"

"You had the skateboard, Johnny," he replied. "I had the pogo stick and stilts. As I recall, we both had more than our share of bruises, too."

"I promise he'll wear all his gear," Sarah assured Ben's parents, giving John a look. "As for you, Mister I Want to Skateboard, be satisfied with letting Ben show you how it's done. Today is a day for spectator sports, not for touring the local Emergency Room."

O0O

ZipGravity was where every skater wanted to be all the time, safe from rain-slicked sidewalks, away from pedestrians, able to ollie, grind and pop-shove their way around a huge building consisting almost entirely of clean man-made concrete and wood structures to challenge even the hardest-core board rat.

There were two sections, one reserved for the eighteen and over crowd, with a smaller area for younger kids a veritable carbon copy of what the larger skaters enjoyed, but without the extremes in height or potential for devastating speed.

Usually, each section was policed by a uniformed referee with a whistle, whose word was law. Infractions of the rules were not only frowned upon, but could get you thrown off the floor for anywhere from ten minutes to permanently, depending on the severity of offense. Because business was traditionally slow on Black Friday, when everyone was at the local malls shopping with their friends and relatives, no refs were scheduled for duty.

Ben wasted no time pushing his two fives toward the cashier, getting a day-glo green wristband with his start and stop times imprinted on it. "You're all set, dude – you can go shred now."

He took off at a run toward the area for gremmies, a nickname for the smaller board rats, dropping his board down a moment before he put his foot on it and rolled toward the small ramp. Ben wanted nothing more than to practice his ollies and catch some air at last. He'd been working on them over the past six months, was reasonably proficient and knew if he needed additional time he could easily persuade his Uncle John to pull out his wallet once more.

Munch and Zelman each took a seat in the observation area, a strong nylon net separating them from the floor with its large expanses of cement, asphalt, pool plaster and a thin carpeted area for beginners. They watched as Ben skated with absolute concentration, hindered by no one, thanks to them being there at exactly the moment the park opened. He went up one ramp, down another, then grabbed his board to climb a flight of stairs to the junior half-pipe. He waved an elbow and wrist-brace clad arm at John and Sarah, seconds before he stepped on his board and zoomed down the plywood structure fast enough to make Zelman gasp. John laughed at her reaction, covering his own fear that Ben would land hard after challenging the wooden behemoth.

"He's really good, considering his age," Sarah said, watching him almost jet from one side of the floor to the other, up and down ramps and off curbs and other things normally considered obstacles by those who didn't skate.

"He's a fearless little guy, I have to admit," John replied, as Ben made a complete loop around the kids' area. "What would you like to bet I'll be paying for a third hour?"

Sarah noticed his smile as he watched his nephew working a series of ramps. "No takers on that one. He'll probably skate all day if we let him." She and John were sitting so close their legs touched, something not lost on Munch as he took her hand in his.

"He'll burn off breakfast and want to fuel up on pizza eventually. His high octane of choice is a pepperoni and mushroom, thin crust with maybe a little extra cheese," he added as he waved at Ben. "Were we really that young once?"

"Oh, we certainly were," Sarah replied. "When I was a little older than he is now, I could barely be pried off a Yamaha trail bike and it only got better from there."

"Your days on a bike, I remember you telling me about them. Didn't you ever get tired of catching bugs between your teeth?" John had been on a motorcycle more than once, even going so far as to get a motorcycle rating on his driver's license while he was a Baltimore uniform. He didn't miss the sudden splat of errant insects against his jacket, leaving him to wonder how Sarah coped. She hated any bug that crawled, crept or flew.

"I always wore a helmet with an extremely dark, full-face visor. Beyond the intimidation factor, it was great at keeping the critters at bay," she said, watching as the youngest Munch was momentarily out of sight.

"You? Intimidating? Perhaps you'll forgive me for not being too shocked by that," John said, chuckling, wondering what she looked like during that time of her life. "Hey, look up – Ben's at the top of the half-pipe again. He's rather fond of it, considering how many times he's been up there." They waved again, as he pitched forward off the edge and down.

"I'm surprised he hasn't convinced Jake to build him one of those," Zelman said, thinking of how he'd suddenly become the most popular kid in the neighborhood.

"Bernie would probably go along with it, but Marianne wouldn't be happy," he replied. "She prefers a much more controlled environment when it comes to her son's wild side."

They watched as Ben continued to practice his tricks on every conceivable surface, one of his favorites being racing up a small ramp to leap from the small platform it led to, as he kicked his board a few inches off the ground. Finally, after two hours, he rolled up to John and Sarah then stepped on the back of his skateboard and grabbed it easily. "Will you watch my board?" he asked.

"Sure. Where are you going?" Munch asked.

"To the bathroom. I won't be long, you don't have to go with me," Ben replied, giving his uncle a look. The expression bore enough resemblance to the way John looked over the top of his lenses, it was all Sarah could do not to laugh.

"Okay, if you're sure…"

"I'm almost seven, Uncle John," he said. "I'm sure I can go by myself." He walked off in the direction of the restrooms, pleased to be on his own for a few minutes.

As soon as he was out of sight, Munch decided there was something he wanted to attempt. "John, what do you think you're doing?" Sarah asked pithily, as she watched him walk out on to the floor with Ben's skateboard. "Please don't do what I think you're about to do."

He turned around, skateboard in hand. "Relax, babe. You worry too much," he answered. "This can't be all that difficult. If a six year old can do it, so can I." He put the board down, placed his foot on it and tested the wheels as he moved the board back and forth. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Sarah, trying to ignore her exasperated stare burning a hole in his back. "It has to be deceptively simple or most kids wouldn't be doing it. I'll show you."

"John…" Sarah drew out his name on a frustrated sigh he ignored. "I don't want you to show me," she insisted. "I want you to stay off Ben's board and out of the Emergency Room." She crossed her arms over her chest and let out another irritated breath, vowing not to get mad at him in front of his nephew, as she tried to quell the urge to throttle him.

He tentatively pushed off, held out his arms to gain his balance and rode exactly three feet before the skateboard flipped from beneath him as he yelled, "Oh shit!" In the split-second in which he fell squarely on his rump, a whistle blew – the cashier was today's de facto referee. "Dammit!"

"Sir, no adults in the gremmies' area – and no profanity allowed!" It wouldn't have been such an embarrassing warning, if not for the fact it was broadcast over the loudspeaker. He could hear laughter coming from the adult's section, since there was no wall to hide his awkward attempt at besting the skateboard. Luckily for him, his nephew hadn't seen him grace the asphalt with his backside. His goal hadn't been to thoroughly piss off his girlfriend, but he'd achieved exactly that.

He picked up Ben's board and returned to the gallery area, where Sarah refused to so much as look at him. "I just wanted to try it… Come on, sweetie, don't be angry with me." After what felt like an eternity, she finally turned his way, let out the breath she'd been holding and glared. "Remember the saying, 'the only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys?' I used to be pretty good on one of those, before they were made of razor thin wood, a grip surface and polymer wheels," John said. He knew better than to ask her if she wanted to kiss his aching ass and make it better, at least right then. He'd butt-planted hard enough, he realized he'd need a couple of Tylenol by day's end.

Her anger began to dissipate as she realized they hadn't seen their young charge in more than ten minutes. "Where's Ben? He should be back here by now," she said, suddenly worried. "John – "

"You're right, let me go check on him," he said quickly. "Don't worry, he hasn't been grabbed or we'd have heard him yelling at the top of his lungs. I taught him what to do if anyone even tries to touch him." He got up and headed toward the men's room, wondering what had been keeping Ben so long. For a moment he allowed himself into Sarah's line of thinking; he too wondered if someone else had been in the bathroom with more on their mind than the call of nature.

Before he rounded the corner, he heard what sounded like a teenager's voice. "Whoa, little dude! Your mom and dad know you're over here?"

"No, they're not my parents but it's okay. I want to do the half-pipe here," Ben replied. "The one for little kids is lame. I need to find a way to bring my board over here, unless you'd let me use yours." He stood up straight, his shoulders squared as he made an effort to look older.

"No way – my best friend doesn't even get to touch this thing." The young man had his foot planted protectively on his board. "I saw you doing ollies over there when I came in," he replied. "You're pretty good, dude, but this one's too big. Even with gear on, you can fall hard and it'll hurt bad." He winced at the memory of his own misfortune. "I broke my wrist here five months ago. It sucked. My mom made me put away my board for six weeks," he said bitterly. "It's not worth risking it."

"Ben, who's your new friend?" John asked, more than a bit irked. "This area is off-limits right now, remember?" He looked at his nephew and nodded his head toward the area for younger skaters, then turned his attention to the fellow who had tried to talk Ben out of scaling the larger half-pipe. "Thanks for keeping an eye on him. I didn't know when he told me he was going to the men's room he was actually on a mission to misbehave."

As he started to walk back to the area he was relatively proficient in, Ben had to try one more time to convince someone he was capable of handling the drop and speed of the larger structure. "But I can do it, Uncle John! Let me try it one time. Please?"

"No, absolutely not," he replied, thoroughly irritated. "What's more, you didn't tell me the truth when you said you needed to use the bathroom. You came over here and – "

"I did go, I didn't lie," Ben answered truthfully. "When I was coming back, I wanted to see the _real_ half-pipe. The other one is for little kids," he complained, watching the teenager zip down one side and almost make it to the other side. "I belong with the big kids. C'mon, Uncle John." The stubborn expression on his face didn't fade as they made their way back. Zelman had heard his strident arguments as they arrived back at the gremmies' side of the park. He saw her and immediately seized on her as a potential ally. "Aunt Sarah will let me do it, won't you?"

She shook her head, noticing John's hands were on his hips. He clearly wasn't pleased. "Ben, I know you want to try it, but I can't let you, either," she replied. "Your mom and dad would be very upset with all of us if you did it and got hurt."

"I won't get hurt! I want to do this." He gestured to his elbows, knees and wrists in an effort to make them understand. "I have all my gear on. Why won't you let me? I promise it won't kill me," he assured them. "Please? You have to let me," he continued emphatically.

"Nothing says we _have_ to let you, squirt. Didn't the young man over there just tell you he broke his wrist?" John looked into his eyes as he awaited a response. "Ben, answer me."

"Yes, Uncle John – but that was him, it wasn't me," he explained, hoping it would sway both adults.

"Thus my point; it's not going to be you, because I can't allow it." It was quickly becoming a battle of wills, which John was determined to win. Ben needed to understand that from time to time 'no' really did mean no.

"You told me some of the stuff you did! It was more dangerous," Ben countered in an effort to defend his point. "You didn't even have a helmet and pads. This isn't fair," he said, careful to not lose his temper entirely.

"Ben, life isn't always fair. You know how much I care about you, which is why I'm not going to have you speeding down an almost two-storey piece of wood at twice the speed of sound," John replied, almost talking over his nephew. "Sometimes, I have to set limits."

"Hold on…hold on just a second, guys," Zelman said softly, looking at each of them as if to send them to separate corners of the ring. Sarah, astrologically a Sagittarius like Ben, knew reason was the way to handle his loud insistence and craving for reckless adventure. While it was skateboards for Ben, it had been motorcycles for her and she certainly understood both sides of the argument. "Let's talk about this in a logical way, shall we? This way, we can discuss it objectively and leave fear out of it for a minute. Okay?" She watched Ben's expression as he nodded yes.

"Right. Sure. Good idea, sweetie. If you go up there, you're violating the rules, Ben," John said, his tone now gentle. "If the management wanted to, they could throw you out and never let you come here again. I know you wouldn't want that; none of us would."

"Then ask them if I could try it once. One time, Uncle John, just once," he replied quietly. "I won't ask again if you get them to let me." He was never a child who threw tantrums, instead he'd ask repeatedly and instinctively wrangle to defend his point of view. Stubbornly. Almost exactly like his father and favorite uncle.

"Ben, I know you don't want to hear this, but it's important," Sarah began earnestly. "Sometimes, even if we don't agree with the rules, we still have to follow them. Your Uncle John and I don't always agree with the NYPD rules, either, but we still have to do what they say." She remained sitting to stay on his level. She'd noticed the argument had accelerated because Munch had been standing, body language not wasted on Ben. "Most of the time, it's rules to try and keep us safe because the department doesn't want us to get hurt."

John picked up the thread as if they were both working over a reluctant perp. "Even if the rules don't make sense to you now, they will when you're older. When you're taller and bigger, you won't want to risk accidentally hurting someone smaller when they come over here with you on the bigger ramps. Right?" Sarah was relieved when John finally sat down, both figuratively and literally on the child's level.

"Yes. I get it. I'd be in the way."

"It's not entirely like that, Ben. It's a matter of respecting each other's turf," Sarah added. "You understand respect, I know, because you always respect your Uncle John." She put her hands on his shoulders for a moment, looking him straight in the eye. "I want you to know we both appreciate how you feel about this."

"Ben, you do understand, don't you? Are you all right with this now?" John asked.

"I think so," he replied, relenting at last. "Mom and Dad would be pretty mad at me, too."

"It's okay, squirt. Sooner than you think, you'll be on the bigger ramps." While I wonder where his youth went and start to feel very old, John thought ruefully.

"Would you like to go have pizza now?" Sarah asked, the conflict having been solved at last.

"Yeah, I'm hungry enough to eat a whole large pizza by myself!"

"Take off your gear and grab your board, then we'll head for Rossetti's," John decided.

As Ben unfastened his helmet and pads, John and Sarah shared a knowing look. Both had, at different points in their lives, considered becoming a parent. Neither of them followed through, for a plethora of reasons, but they still had the skills to do the job.

One of the things which helped was, neither of them believed in the "do as you're told" approach because it certainly hadn't worked when they were children. John's father had raised his boys with kindness and reason, giving them the opportunity to seek the logic behind the family's rules. It gave John a great deal of pride to know his brother and sister-in-law followed the same path with Ben.

O0O

Rossetti's pizza was the polar opposite of D'Angelo's Brooklyn Style, another of John and Ben's favorites places to eat. The latter was a hole in the wall joint in a slightly seedy avenue on Pikesville's border, a clapboard cracker box of a place where you gave your order at the window for a slice or two and ate it sitting at a makeshift counter, seated next to strangers on cracked leather stools.

Sarah noticed Rossetti's upscale appearance immediately, as John held the mahogany and leaded glass front door for her and Ben. They walked into a waiting area filled with local bric-a-brac, framed reviews of the menu and service, a beautiful bar area and dark wood tables covered with heavy white paper. She liked the place immediately.

The hostess led them to a table, pulled a new package of Crayola crayons from her apron pocket and handed them their menus. "Your server will be with you in a moment," she said with a smile, excusing herself to seat other customers.

"Do you know what you want, Ben?" John asked with a sly wink.

"Pepperoni with double mushrooms, the same as you," he replied happily. "And a pitcher of root beer, maybe two." He put his red and white-checkered napkin across his lap as his uncle did the same. "Are you going to eat some of our pizza, Aunt Sarah? I think we should get an extra large."

"I'll bet you two can put a heavy dent into a pizza all by yourselves," Zelman said, a grin on her face. "The pizza and salad buffet is more my style, with a diet root beer. I'm saving room for ice cream."

"Ice cream – we're going to Baskin Robbins for pistachio?" Ben asked hopefully.

"A scoop of pistachio almond after lunch," John agreed. "But you have to promise me you won't eat so much you're not hungry at dinner." As if that would happen, he thought fondly. The child can eat almost more than I can and burn it off even faster.

The server came back and took their order, explaining to Zelman she could go to the buffet at any time she wanted. She opted to stay at the table with John and Ben; it would have been cruel to bring back her pizza while they still waited for theirs.

"Ooooohhhh, check it out – crayons," Sarah said, picking up the box to open it.

"You like crayons? Only kids like those," Ben said, a disapproving look on his young features.

"You're never too old for art," she replied, fishing out orange and black. Zelman set to work as John took the box from her, pulling out the green one. Both of them had a thin smile on their faces as they began to draw.

Surreptitiously, Ben also took crayons – the blue and red. A moment later, all of them were lost in their artwork. A little over ten minutes later, he looked up, finished. "It's a '55 Chevy, but the one Dad gave me is a different color."

He had a considerable talent for perspective and shading, despite his youth. "Wow, Ben… You're really good. Too bad they didn't have the right color of crayons for you."

He shrugged slightly, then looked across the table. "What's that, Uncle John? It looks like a weird circle with a bunch of squiggles inside," he said, perplexed. Obviously, as far as he was concerned, his uncle had flunked art in a major way.

"It's not a 'bunch of squiggles,'" John replied, feigning indignity, "it's an amoeba or maybe a protozoa… There's never a scientist around when you need one." He added some extra circles and wondered if it really did look like something he'd seen in science class. "You'll appreciate having seen this once you're in Biology, a few years from now."

Ben shook his head, thinking his dad was right: Sometimes, Uncle John was twisted. He gazed down at the white paper in front of Zelman and rose up to take a closer look. "A tiger! Aunt Sarah, I didn't know you could really draw. Where did you learn to draw tigers?"

"In art class, a very long time ago," she replied. "I love tigers, but they're awfully hard to draw well. I learned just enough to get by." She noticed John was trying to turn his head in a way that would give him a better view.

"Can we take it home to show Mom, along with my car?" Ben asked, as their servers arrived, one to place the pizza and the other to pour their drinks.

"You sure can," the young woman interjected, quickly replacing the white paper with a new sheet, before she put the trivet on the table. "I'll bring those back for you in a few minutes." The fellow behind her sat the pizza down and expertly took out a slice each for John and Ben. "She'll be right back. And you're welcome to help yourself to our pizza, pasta and salad bar," he reminded Sarah.

John immediately reached for the shakers of chili pepper flakes and Parmesan cheese, sprinkling a generous amount of each on his slice. He passed them across to Ben, who added a bit of each to his pizza, too.

"Whoa. Wait a minute… Ben, you – " Sarah was shocked he was following his uncle's lead in spicing up his food. "That stuff is _hot_. John, you have corrupted this young man, encouraging him to do such a thing."

"It's okay. Uncle John and I like to have birdseed on our pizza," he replied, shaking a little more cheese on to his to get the ration exactly right. "It's good."

"'Birdseed?'" She had a dubious look on her face, as they both dug in.

"Pepper seeds and flakes," John explained between bites. "They look like birdseed, hence the nickname." He nearly laughed when he saw her eye his pizza suspiciously. "You can't tell me they didn't have this in Chicago. If they didn't, you had a deprived existence there."

"Sure they did, but we never called it that." She slid out of the booth to go get her own pizza, hopefully mushroom with black olives, which she would eat unadorned. "Birdseed. I learn something new every day."

As they ate, the lady returned to their table with their artwork. Each drawing had been cut from the large piece of paper with pinking shears, to give it a decorative edge. Then, thanks to a glue stick, each had been mounted to a piece of construction paper in a complementary color – including John's amoeba, which now sported a gold star for his efforts. Ben saw it and laughed so hard, Sarah was afraid he'd choke on his root beer.

"These are ready for the front of a refrigerator near you," she quipped, as they all giggled. "Especially yours, Mister Scientist." She shook her head gently, before walking off.

Sarah made a mental note to put John's drawing on her fridge, while he thought of framing her Bengal tiger. Both knew Marianne would proudly display Ben's Chevy, before adding it to a car-themed scrapbook she was making.

After John and Ben made fairly quick work of their pizza, Sarah left the table out of personal necessity. On the way back, she used the opportunity to quietly purchase a gift certificate for Bernie and his family, a little something to give them 'pizza night' after being at the mortuary all week.

Everyone had finished their lunch, satisfied Rossetti's made perfectly acceptable pizza. Granted, it wasn't New York style, but it was good enough to leave a smile on Sarah's face as John paid the check. Ben was looking forward to going next door, already trying to decide if he wanted a sugar cone or a waffle cone for his scoop of pistachio. Before he made his choice, he wanted to see what his uncle decided upon.

As much as possible, Ben wanted to be just like his Uncle John.

…to be continued…


	12. Chapter 12

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner by Cardinal Robbins

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Twelve

"Who in their right mind would put a throw-back ramp inside a tiki god?"

John was trying not to be frustrated with his well over par score, but as the bright orange ball came rolling back toward him he was ready to try his luck at tossing it inside its target.

They were on the fifteenth hole of an 18-hole course at PZone, known officially as the Putting Zone Glow Golf Arena, themed to look like prehistoric Hawaii and garishly adorned with enough day-glow paint to give both John and Sarah a headache, the combination of black lights, strobes and spotlights making their photosensitive eyes ache.

Still, John challenged the tiki one last time, Ben cheering as the ball went through smoothly, dropped down a ramp and dribbled out next to the hole. He knew his nephew loved putt-putt, no surprise he'd asked to play a round before everyone had to be back for shul.

"You did it, Uncle John! See how close to the hole you are?" He led the way as the adults followed, everyone standing on stepping stones of various fluorescent colors to tap their ball into the hole. John smiled as he made par for the first time in their round, wincing for a brief moment as he leaned over to retrieve his golf ball. _I had to show off on Ben's skateboard, _he reminded himself ruefully. _Why do you feel so compelled to prove a point, Munch? _He moved to the next moving target as they made their way over plastic grass, through artificial ferns and pretend tropical plants. Water flowed in the background, the scent of chlorine in the air.

"This is my favorite one. You have to hit it into the stegosaurus's mouth, then it rolls through its tail and into the hole," Ben said enthusiastically. "Last time I was here, Dad said Mom played golf like she was playing baseball, but she made a hole in one! He had to buy her ice cream after that."

"You mean your parents had a little side-bet going?" John asked, amused. "He probably had to do a whole lot more than merely pay her off with ice cream," he whispered in Sarah's ear as she laughed, her face pinking in the low light.

"They bet like that a lot," Ben answered, hitting his yellow golf ball with a hard thwack. "One time, Dad had to make breakfast for a whole week, because he bet Mom she couldn't throw a Frisbee through the tire swing. He wasn't allowed to make cereal, because Mom said that was cheating." He heard a recorded rumble as the dinosaur awakened, the ball clattering through the paint-clad monstrosity all the way down its tail. His ball abruptly stopped three inches short of the hole.

"Jeez, Ben, you were so close!" Sarah said, admiring his shot.

"Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and atomic bombs," John added. "Want to place a little bet on this one, sweetie?" He had a good feeling about this hole. Through the bright blue stegosaur and out the other side, nothing to it. "What would you like to wager?"

"Hmmm…" Sarah considered this for a moment, a mischievous expression on her face. She whispered her wager in his ear as a slow smile spread across his handsome features. "Deal?"

"Deal," he replied, the two of them sharing a kiss to seal it.

"What was it, Uncle John?" Ben's insatiable curiosity had been spurred by their secret. "What did Aunt Sarah bet you?"

"If I lose, I have to take her out to her favorite place for an expensive dinner," he answered, well aware it was only part of the scenario she'd seductively whispered. "If I win, she has to take me out instead." He squared up to the rubber mat that held his colorful projectile in place. "Be prepared to lose, babe." He swung hard enough to barely hear the noisy rumble in the din of the ball ricocheting through the ancient creature, racing down its tail, banking off the opposite wall of the hole and falling straight in. "Yes!" he shouted triumphantly.

"Oh, my god," she said, amazed. "How in the world did you do that?"

"Skill. Pure, unadulterated, natural ability to size up the target and launch the ball into that over-painted roaring menace." He chuckled as Ben slapped his outstretched palm and he returned the gesture. "We have your Aunt Sarah on the run."

"Don't count me out yet," she warned them both. Sarah took her place at the start of the putting green, placed the ball carefully in front of her and studied the scene for a long moment. _Steady,_ she thought. _You can do this. Don't you dare let him get away with that. _Her putt gained enough momentum to make it through, quieter than the others' shots had been. True to form, her lipstick red ball rolled steadily toward the hole, circled the rim and entered with a soft plop.

"Damn it!" John swore, as his future night of celebratory sex was quashed. Ben lowered his head, sad to see his uncle bested or at least matched.

"Now you're in trouble, John," she said, laughing. "You shouldn't have counted your duck a l'orange before it was hatched."

0O0

After eighteen holes in the Technicolor darkness, John and Sarah blinked heavily as they walked to the car with Ben close behind them. He'd been granted a half-hour in the arcade, playing Whack-a-Mole and challenging both adults to games of Skee-Ball, as he won more prize tickets for his collection. In the display case sat a bright red roadster, which he swore would eventually be his, once he'd saved enough of the bright green scrips.

"It's still a little early, but we'll take you home so you can get ready for this evening," John said as he drove to Bernie and Marianne's place. "Are you looking forward to seeing your friends?"

"Yes, because most of them go to my school," he answered, counting his tickets as he separated them. "Some of them go to temple on Saturday mornings instead of tonight." Despite his age, Ben liked going to shul; he enjoyed seeing his friends before services, the air of mystery as he tried to understand a few words of Yiddish or Hebrew, the feeling of belonging to an even bigger family than his own. Most of all, liked being able to wear a kipah like his dad.

0O0

Once they arrived at Ben's, both John and Sarah made a point of going inside with him. He was ready for a peanut butter and banana sandwich before changing clothes, but his mother gently stopped him for a moment. "Ben, don't you have something to say to Uncle John and Aunt Sarah?"

"Oh, yeah – thanks for all the cool stuff we did! It was great!" John bent down and got a hug for his efforts, before Ben hugged Sarah, too. "Will you come down to visit again soon, Uncle John? When you visit we do all kinds of fun stuff. We need to show Aunt Sarah the other pizza place we go to and the arcade with air hockey!"

"I think maybe we could manage another visit or two before next Thanksgiving," he replied, giving Zelman's hand a gentle squeeze. "What do you think, Sarah? Would you like to make a return trip to see our favorite nephew?"

"For pizza and air hockey? You can count on it," she replied, hoping it really wouldn't be too long before they returned to Pikesville.

"Johnny, do you have a moment?" Bernie asked, as he walked into the room. "I have something for you." He held a small royal blue velvet bag, which John didn't immediately recognize. He nodded his head toward the living room sofa, where the two of them could sit down.

Marianne knew what was inside. She put her hand on her son's back and steered him toward the kitchen for a snack, as Sarah saw the expression on her face and followed. "Those two could get very emotional in a minute or two," she whispered to Zelman. "I wanted to give them some space."

In the living room, John sat down beside his brother, curious about what was held in the blue bag. "Bernie, what's this about?"

"Johnny, before we go to shul, I wanted you to have this," he said, mildly surprising his brother. He took another long look at the small velvet bag, before he handed it to John. "This belonged to Dad. Since you're the eldest of the two of us, it should go to you. I'd been wearing it, but Marianne and Ben bought me one for Father's Day this year." He gestured toward his blue velvet kippa held in place with an unobtrusive hair clip beneath. "Go ahead, open it."

John carefully unzipped the bag, reached inside and pulled out a black satin yarmulke with two hair clips attached. For a long moment, he didn't know what to say, lost in thought about their father. After he regained his emotional footing, he slowly pulled off the hair clips and put on the kippa, fastening it in place. "Are you sure you want to part with this, Bernie? You've had it for this long, maybe it should remain here with you."

"No, Johnny, it's time for it to belong to you now," he replied. "It looks good. You should take it with you back to Washington Heights, in case you and Sarah ever decide to go to services there." He looked at his brother, a slight smile on his features. "Dad would have wanted it this way."

Before Bernie could say another word, John pulled him into a tight hug. "Thank you. It means a lot to hear you say that," he said. "I know Dad wasn't the most religious man in the world, but he made sure we knew early on what being a Jew is all about."

They reluctantly let go of each other as Bernie whispered, "As Dad would say, wear it in good health." Both of them silently recalled how John had done well with the Torah reading at his bar mitzvah, just a month before David Munch put a .38 to his head and pulled the trigger. He had at least remained long enough to see his son become a man insofar as Jewish law was concerned. John and Bernie both often wondered if that had been the last thing he wanted, the last emotional benchmark, to have his son considered an adult in some way to carry on in his absence.

John let out a long breath, reaching up to make sure the kippa was firmly in place before they went into the kitchen.

Sarah saw him and immediately knew, even before Marianne could explain. "Was that your father's?" she asked softly.

"Yes," he answered, "Yes, it was." He pulled her into a tight embrace, thinking of his dad as he realized with certainty David Munch would have approved of Sarah, too.

0O0

"I should have brought a long-sleeved dress, instead of packing this skirt," Sarah said. "Hopefully this isn't too short for shul." She tugged at the black material, which hugged her thighs halfway to her knees. "Is this shirt too revealing?" She looked in the mirror, critically eying how close it came to showing cleavage. "I need something to cover my hair."

"Sweetie, what you need is a Xanax and I suggest you take one," John replied gently. "You know as well as I do, long sleeved dresses are for the Orthodox. The same with covering your hair, Sarah. Just because you caught grief over your hair when you went to Conservative services doesn't mean anyone will look twice this evening." He watched with a mixture of approval and regret as she dug in her bag and shook out a single pill. "The light blue shirt is fine, too; it's not as if you'll be a harlot in the temple," he quipped. "Relax, babe… This is a Reform shul, remember?"

"Yes, but I know how important this is to your family," she replied softly, her eyes downcast. She was having second thoughts about wearing her over the ankle boots, but relented since they were already polished for the occasion. She went into the bathroom, ran the tap for a moment then filled a glass, wondering after she swallowed how long it would take before the Xanax would calm her. Giving in to her anxiety, she went to John and they wrapped their arms around each other. She hated being nervous, with him calm and cool about everything. He had the advantage of being on his home turf, however, something she had never felt until she moved to Washington Heights.

"You're beautiful, Sarah," he said simply, tilting her chin upward. "You don't need to fret over how you look." He kissed her lightly on the lips, wishing there was something he could say to assuage her misgivings. "Don't worry, we're both walking into the unknown together, because the last time I worshipped I was part of a minyan to say kaddish for my high school crush. It wasn't even at a synagogue."

"But you knew the prayer, you knew what to say," she replied.

"Bernie told me the cantor leads the prayers so everyone knows what to say when," John explained. "That should make us both feel a little better, even though I wish I had a copy of Shabbos for Dummies." She reached up, smoothing his hair to one side of his kippah as he smiled. "All we have to do is listen to the cantor."

"Okay, I can do that," she said, smiling gently to let him know she was going to give it her best. "Hey, anyone else tell you how hot you look wearing a yarmulke?" Sarah needed to change the subject, in hopes she could put her anxiety aside.

"This comes from the same woman who once told me I look hot in a fedora," he replied.

"Well, you do." She loved how he looked when he wore his hat, especially when it was paired with his darkest coat.

"The reason you like me to wear my hat is because, I've been told, I give the appearance of a rather daunting sight whom some have mistakenly compared to a being of vampiric nature. The whole brimmed hat and trench coat ensemble is never lost on you, since secret agents still give you a cheap thrill," John teased. "It's amazing, what scares the daylights out of some people actually turns you on. You're as warped as I am, sweetie."

"Guilty as charged," she said, smiling broadly. "Want to frisk me, Detective?"

He whispered in her ear, "It's the least I'd like to do to you, unfortunately we're not home right now." He glanced at his watch, realizing it was time to go. "Looks like we have to break up this party," he decided. "Remind me to frisk you later."

"As if either one of us would forget," Sarah quipped.

…to be continued…


	13. Chapter 13

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner by Cardinal Robbins

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner by Cardinal Robbins

Chapter Thirteen

It hadn't taken much time to drive to Temple Beth Emanuel, which meant they were a few minutes too early to simply walk in. Munch decided to wait until he saw Bernie, because to walk in without his younger brother would leave him and Sarah vulnerable to everyone's curiosity.

The synagogue was a stylish example of mid-1960's architecture, its stunning angles and curves testament to the best of the more avant gard designs of its time. Narrow, medium brown bricks were placed so precisely not a single mortar line was evident. The lettering was Hebrew-styled script, naming the shul and quietly proclaiming it was a Reform temple. John was glad no one had changed it much over the years, except to maintain it impeccably. As far as he knew, only the rabbis had changed and undoubtedly most of the congregation, be it by choice or attrition.

"Nothing like an enforced foray into organized religion to remind us how much we hate it," Munch said, careful to keep his voice low despite them both being in Zelman's Saturn with the windows closed.

"I promise not to get into any political discussions about Israel," Sarah said, her views usually too liberal for most rabbis to tolerate. "I'll bite my tongue if the topic of Palestine comes up." She had considered herself a pariah when she attended shul while working for the Feds in Florida, because the rabbi there hated anything remotely resembling a peace accord. She, on the other hand, believed even the Palestinians deserved a homeland – a view not shared by too many Jews, especially her peers among the Conservative sect.

"You won't be the only one trying not to say anything subversive," John assured her, blowing out a long breath. "I'm strongly for the separation of synagogue and state. I don't always agree with what Israel's government does, either." He watched the door for a moment before he continued. "We'll try to keep our heads down and our opinions to ourselves, unless we're backed against the wall. Then, we'll politely nod, smile and try to direct the conversation elsewhere." He gave Sarah's hand a squeeze as she nodded her head.

"Good plan," she said, forcing a smile. "Any idea what I should expect tonight, aside from dinner with the rabbi?"

He shrugged eloquently, not sure about what would happen either. "There's about a half-hour nosh before services, after which Mom will probably pull you one way while Bernie expects me to sit between him and Ben."

"It's a Reform temple," Sarah replied, a bit perplexed. "You can't convince me they segregate the seating. That would be a little too Orthodox."

"They don't, but Mom will," he explained. "She'll want you to sit between her and Marianne." He saw her take a deep breath then let it out very slowly. "It's all going to be fine. All you have to do is sit through what's probably an absolutely arid sermon from the rabbi, then dinner."

"You know me, as long as there's food involved, I'm fine," she quipped, smiling for the first time since they parked. She interlaced her fingers with his, a gesture that always gave them both a measure of comfort.

"While you're suffering new kid in town syndrome, I'll be fending off all the where-have-you-beens," he replied. "Brace yourself, because they'll be plenty of both for us to handle tonight."

"Will this be easier or harder than yesterday?" she asked, trying to put it into her own frame of reference.

He pursed his lips as he contemplated the same question. "On the same level, but maybe not as personal. However, if they start to put up a chuppah, follow me to the nearest exit and we'll both make a run for it."

She laughed, the mental image of such an outlandish possibility appealing to her twisted sense of humor. "I guess it's a good thing we're both armed, after all."

"You have a point. Look toward the door, Bernie's here," he said, seeing his brother, Marianne and Ben walking into the shul.

"John, where's your mom?" Sarah asked. "I don't see her with them."

"Inside with her friends, helping the rabbi's wife set up for the Jewish equivalent of a meet and greet," he answered. He looked at Zelman, his eyes wide as it suddenly dawned on him: His mother was already in the synagogue, chatting not only with her friends but with the rabbi's wife – undoubtedly doting on her eldest son and his girlfriend. "Damn, this sucks! She got a head start on us, babe."

"She certainly did, John. We're screwed, unless we can do some damage control somehow." Sarah sighed, aware the heat on the two of them had just been cranked up. "You didn't tell me she was going to be helping here," she said sourly. "Lovely."

"Please believe me when I tell you it completely slipped my mind," he replied. "Maybe it won't be as bad as we think. Let's go in and try to hide behind a plate of sponge cake, shall we?" He smiled, determined to make the best of it all, despite feeling as if they were facing a gauntlet.

"Hey, since you're Reform, you get to lead the way."

0O0

It didn't take long for Bernie to introduce them to Rabbi Silverstein, Rabbi Keitel and some of the other congregants. Beth Emanuel's cantor, Laurel Pommerantz, would meet them a bit later, her time currently taken helping to set up the Shabbat nosh in the shul's foyer.

John watched as more people came in, most of them families with grade school age children; the boys handsome in their suits, the girls beautiful in their dresses. He saw Ben was with a group of his peers, laughing and talking while they waited for permission to have cake and fruit punch.

He turned as a fellow tapped him on the shoulder. "John? John Munch?"

"Jerry Wasserman, is that really you?" Munch asked, shaking hands with the man. "I haven't seen you since I married Gwen!" He laughed as Jerry pulled him into a warm hug.

"I know!" he replied. "Remember how mad she got when Gary Nichols smuggled in the bottle of tequila and we were all sneaking shots before the reception?" His face lit up at the memory, his blue eyes brightening at the thought. "We were ripped to the gills! How'd you ever get out of that one, John?"

"By doing a lot of groveling that night," he said, laughing softly. "She never let me forget it, either." Gwen had carried the memory with her throughout their marriage, reminding him of it shortly before she left. She'd been so upset, he never dared have a bottle of his favorite liquor in the house, lest she find it and dump it out of spite. His occasional desire for a shot or two had to be indulged at the local watering hole, usually in the company of a few of his fellow patrol officers.

"I see you've gotten married again," Jerry said, eyeing Sarah appreciatively.

"Not so fast," John corrected, "she has more good sense than to marry me." He introduced Zelman to Wasserman, Sarah smiling as they shook hands. "Don't you dare get any ideas about telling her tales of my earlier days or I'll have to challenge you to a duel." He hastily explained Wasserman was one of his old partners during his days as a BPD uniform, both of them having worked the Southwestern sector of the city.

"Another gentleman of the badge and gun, I see," Sarah said, more than a bit self-conscious about the fact she was packing heat of her own.

"John and I had a lot of great times," Jerry assured her. "We kept each other safe, too." He looked past them where Ruthie was standing, pouring punch into paper cups. "I guess you have that distinction now, by what I've heard. It's great he has a partner."

Before she could respond, she felt John's arm around her waist. "We're not here to talk shop," Munch said affably, side-stepping the other meaning of 'partner' before Jerry could say more. "But sometime we should get together, talk about the old days and knock back a couple shots. Right now, however, I think we'll get something to drink and maybe mingle a bit."

"When we do meet up again, the bar tab's on me," Jerry replied, shaking hands with John once more before he returned to his wife and children. In some ways, Munch almost envied him that – a strong marriage of over ten years, two well-behaved boys and a daughter who'd have no shortage of suitors in the future.

He steered Sarah toward the buffet table, laden with fresh fruit, vegetable trays, dips, cheeses, crackers and various types of light cakes. They chose their snacks, each took some punch, then found a place to people-watch as more congregants came to meet and nosh. By the time the half-hour was winding down, John had been recognized by plenty of people, especially by those Ruthie had brought over to make introductions.

_If only I could get Mom to stop using the word fiancée each time she introduces Sarah,_ he thought, feeling the sting of deep frustration. He mentally cringed as he reminded himself, above all, she meant well.

0O0

Not long after six-thirty, everyone was seated in the sanctuary for Ma'ariv services, John holding a prayer book as he faced the ark and momentarily watched the eternal light of the Ner Tamid burning in an ornate hammered copper sconce on the wall above it.

He stood with everyone as the Rabbi and Cantor entered, taking their places adjacent to the beautifully adorned ark as the Associate Rabbi opened it. He could feel Sarah's tension as palpably as he felt his own, wondering if the two of them would relax at some point before dinner was served.

Rabbi Silverstein greeted everyone, welcoming those present before a guitarist began an acoustic version of "Shabbat Shalom," a song vaguely familiar to both Munch and Zelman. Everyone was invited to join in song as the Rabbi led, reciting the words before each verse. His easy manner started to relax John, as he joined in with everyone else. John put his hand on Ben's shoulder, enjoying the sound of his nephew's singing voice. He heard Sarah's clear mezzo-soprano, coupled with his mother and Marianne's beautiful alto voices.

Once the song was finished, the Rabbi remained at the podium. "As we welcome Shabbat tonight, let's also welcome each other. At this time I'd like to you turn to your neighbor and greet them, if you would." He took the opportunity to shake hands with those standing in the front row.

John gave his brother a hug, whispering in his ear, "Thanks for inviting us, Bernie. I may have had some misgivings, but I am glad to be here." He turned and shook hands with Ben, watching as Sarah gave Marianne and Ruth a hug, looking considerably more at ease than when they sat down.

Following the liturgy was easier than either John or Sarah had anticipated, the cantor giving the page and verse in the prayer book before each was beautifully recited in Hebrew. Munch and Zelman were able to follow along without feeling too self-conscious. After Psalm 92, everyone's voices rose in song once more as the guitarist played "L'Cha Dodi," the melody a distant memory for John, even more so for Sarah whose shul had rarely included music in its services.

Associate Rabbi Judy Keitel took the podium afterward, to give a short sermon on the concept of tikkun olam, a Judaic concept of giving of oneself to change the world for the better. Most of the congregation listened intently as she explained the holidays were not only a time to be thankful, they were a time of introspection to find ways in which to give gifts of time, knowledge and compassion to others.

"As many of you have done through Chabad in connection with our synagogue," she continued, "in giving of your time to serve meals to those less fortunate, remember the mitzvah you perform each day has a ripple effect on everyone around you. The person you serve now will often go on to serve others as they pass along the kindness in your heart. The families you support during our toy drive and Hanukkah project will understand the true concepts of tikkun olam, spreading it to others as they rise to better financial means in the future.

"Above all, don't think of giving as merely opening your wallet or writing a check. Think of it as a tangible way to make a difference in this community – your community – as we all work to take care of each other. Be a partner with us as we help others, be a catalyst for change in your own social circles, be someone who truly cares enough to make a difference in someone else's life. The rewards are both profound and extremely fulfilling."

Her message struck a chord with John and Sarah, both of whom tried to give of themselves whenever possible. Three months prior, they'd started offering personal safety and self-defense sessions once a month at a community center in Washington Heights, in an effort to give women a greater sense of self-confidence. It hadn't taken long for the classes to become so popular there was a waiting list. Both wished they could do even more with their days off, but they were getting good results having started with the three-hour seminars.

Rabbi Silverstein returned to the podium to again lead the congregation in prayer, before more blessings were said. As services concluded, he invited those who were joining him and his wife for the evening meal to meet in the multi-purpose room.

In the foyer, on their way to dinner, John spotted the collection box. He pulled a small white envelope from the inner pocket of his suit coat as Sarah smiled. They'd each made out a donation check, coupled together to ensure a generous amount in appreciation of their welcome.

Danielle Silverstein, the Rabbi's wife, had come into the room well in advance of services, just as the sun was setting to mark the beginning of the Sabbath. She'd lit the large Shabbat menorah with long dripless candles, covered her eyes and said the traditional blessing before she carefully placed the candelabrum where it could be easily seen by all.

When she and her husband, Dov, walked into the room, they were pleased to see two loaves of challah on a wooden cutting board, covered by a simple white cloth adorned with a blue Star of David embroidered into the fabric. It was the same on each table, two loaves of challah, covered, awaiting the blessings over family, wine and bread. Dov and Danielle waited patiently while everyone found their places at the tables, both of them having looked forward to this night all week.

Once everyone stood next to their place setting, Rabbi Silverstein raised his hands slightly, as a respectful quiet settled over the room. He placed his hands on the heads of his young sons, Joshua and Alexander, as Bernie placed his hand on Ben's head and other father's followed suit with their sons and daughters. Dov recited the blessings over his family as every father who knew the words joined in. He finished with a second blessing to honor the wives present, noting with satisfaction how husbands didn't hesitate to hold their wife's hand as the words were recited.

No one spoke afterward, knowing the blessings over wine would be said next. As Silverstein raised his cup of Kedem, the male head of household in each family did the same with theirs to recite Kiddush, all of them united in a sense of joy as the words were said to sanctify the Sabbath. Once this concluded, the Rabbi sat down, inviting the others to do so as well.

At an adjacent table, Cantor Pommerantz gave the blessing over the bread, holding the two loaves as she said, "Blessed are You, Eternal One our God, Ruling Presence of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth," as someone from each table softly recited the same in Hebrew. With that, the bread and salt were passed and Shabbat had officially begun.

Calls of "Shabbat shalom!" and "Gut shabbes!" rang out as the pre-meal ceremony came to a close. Service staff from the caterer's brought each adult a silver-edged china plate with a baked salmon filet garnished with a twist of lemon, whipped garlic potatoes and a colorful portion of mixed squash. The younger among them were given salmon patties, shoestring French fries and enough green beans to fulfill their parent's insistence on a healthy, balanced meal.

0O0

As the conversation hit a momentary lull, Ben's innate curiosity got the better of him. "Aunt Sarah, do you have a Hebrew name?"

Zelman paused and put down her fork for a moment, as her new nephew looked at her thoughtfully. "I do. Do you?"

Ben nodded, turning a bit in his chair toward her. "Yes, but I asked you first."

Sarah smiled, realizing all of the adults at their table were suddenly listening to the new topic of conversation. "You asked if I had one. You didn't ask me what it was," she said, giving him a slight nudge with her elbow.

"Not fair. It sounds like something Uncle John would say," he replied with a slight giggle. "His Hebrew name is 'Dovid,' after Zaydeh David. But his middle name is David. It matches."

She glanced at John, who shook his head to agree. "Yes, it does. What's your Hebrew name, Ben?" she asked.

"Remember, I asked you first," he insisted, a somewhat serious expression on his young features. "You're being a weasel, even though on Thanksgiving Uncle Andy said you're a tiger. Weasels get tricky when they're asked questions." He looked at his uncle who, at that point, was doing his very best not to burst out laughing. John silently vowed not to explain exactly why Andy had referred to Sarah in such a fashion.

"Who told you about weasels?" she asked, highly amused.

"Uncle John," he replied, gesturing toward his uncle. "He said cops don't like weasels, because they never cooperate."

"He's right, they don't," she said, laughing softly. "I'm definitely not a weasel. By the way, your Uncle Andy's close but he should have said, 'tigress,' since that's the feminine of the noun." Her correction was gentle as she made her point.

Ben made a face when he heard her, nonetheless. "You didn't tell me you're the grammar police like Miss Seidleman."

She tried not to laugh, remembering what she was like at his age. "Okay, okay… My Hebrew name is Shira, which means poetry put to music – a song."

"That would be putting it into the most basic of terms," Rabbi Silverstein interjected, "which does you a tremendous disservice." He pushed his plate back, his expression asking her permission to continue as she nodded.

"How so?" Sarah asked, intrigued.

"The Shira is the name given to the day upon which we read the Song of the Sea. It is a poem of praise and tribute, chanted by Moses and our people in thanks for the miracle of parting the Red Sea," he explained, taking a sip of wine. "Without the parting of the sea, our escape from Egypt would never have happened. Without that poem, we would have lacked a fitting step in the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai." He smiled, realizing she'd been given the name without understanding the effect she'd had upon the rabbi who'd bestowed it upon her.

"We sometimes forget the relevance, but the parting of the sea invoked a connection between the revealed world and hidden worlds," he continued. "In the divine service of a Jew it signifies revelation of the essential roots of the soul. This poem-song, the Shira, is a tribute of praise among the highest of all divine services," he said. "And you thought it only meant poetry set to music." He grinned, delighting in the fact he'd held his guests almost spellbound with his knowledge of Judaic history.

"I had no idea," Sarah replied. "I thought it was perhaps the Hebrew word for song, and only that." She smiled softly, considering the implications of what he'd said.

"Never merely a song, but a hymn and surging forth of the yechidah – essence – of the soul, the truly innermost source of who you are." He took another small sip of wine before he continued. "Whomever named you that recognized the energy, power and depth of your essence. Was it a name you'd chosen?"

"No… I'd chosen the Hebrew word for wind, because I felt very unsettled at the time," she admitted. "The rabbi, with whom I frequently debated various passages of the Torah, asked if he could give me a name of his choosing. He said he didn't feel wind was 'deep enough' or 'appropriate' for me," she said, quietly pleased she'd been given a name so relevant to her people.

"It's a name not given without great depth of thought," the rabbi replied. "Now you know. Ben, did you have any other questions?"

"No," he replied. "I only wanted to know Aunt Sarah's Hebrew name." He was satisfied with the rabbi's answer, thinking his aunt was very special indeed.

"I have a question," Zelman said. "Ben, what's your Hebrew name? Since I answered you, turn-about is fair play. Don't be a weasel!"

"My Hebrew name is Aaron, Zaydeh David's middle name, but my middle name is Jay – Benjamin Jay Munch."

0O0

Dinner had concluded with a sinful helping of chocolate raspberry layer cake, Sarah giving John half of hers in her near constant battle to maintain her figure. Within the thirty minutes which followed, families left for the evening, small groups chatted among themselves, some people helped themselves to a second cup of coffee, others talked with the rabbi and his wife. Munch and Zelman said their goodbyes, slipped away and once again tried to find a moment alone.

John and Sarah were halfway to the car when she suddenly turned around to go back into the synagogue. "Where's Mom? Wasn't she supposed to ride with us?"

"She wanted to stay a little while, to chat with a couple of friends she hasn't seen in a long time," he replied. "Bernie and Marianne will make sure she's safely delivered to her doorstep." As they approached the car, John maneuvered to the passenger side and opened the door for Sarah.

She slipped inside, murmured her thanks and was almost bursting with the urge to talk about how their evening went. Once John was behind the steering wheel, door closed, she blurted, "Hey, we made it through!" Both let out a long-held sigh of profound relief.

He leaned over for a kiss, letting his lips linger on hers for a long moment. "Yes, we did. Neither of us looked like fools, Rabbi Silverstein didn't drag us into any potentially incendiary political discussions, and now you know what your Hebrew name really means." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before he started the car. "I'd call it a successful night all the way around."

"Aside from the assumption we're engaged," she said, laughing. "The only thing that saved us from a chuppah is the prohibition of getting married on the Sabbath."

"Thankfully, no one thought rules were made to be broken," he replied, a grin on his face.

They rode home in near-silence, both of them wondering if Ruthie had promised her friends they'd be attending a wedding the next time they saw her son and de facto daughter-in-law.

0O0

Forty-five minutes later, they were on Ruthie's sofa, John sitting on one side with his legs stretched out on the couch, Sarah facing him at the other end, her legs stretched out as well. He picked up the remote and started flipping channels, stopping as he recognized a familiar sight. "Look! Frosty's on! I haven't seen him in years." He put down the device as Zelman groaned. "What? You have an issue with an animated snowman?"

"Never mind," she said, looking at him over the top of her lenses. "I don't want to talk about it."

John shook his head and gave her a look of his own, as she became silent. "Whenever a woman says she doesn't want to talk about it, she definitely wants to talk about it." He knew, however, Sarah wasn't like any other woman he'd met. "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"It's a childhood thing," she said, her voice almost a whisper.

His heart sank as he realized what her problem was and how it must have affected her, then and now. "It's the ending, isn't it? It's the fact that Frosty melts into a puddle, and with your cynical nature he dries up in the sun never to return, despite the promise of him coming back year after year like a reincarnated ice cube."

"I hate how it ends," she replied, trying not to sound as miserable as she felt.

"Not only how it ends, but that it makes you cry," he ventured. "I defy you to tell me that's not it." He sat up straighter on the couch, changing position in such a way as to start rubbing her aching feet. "Sarah, he comes back. Despite what you think, it's not a permanent situation – he's back with the first blast of next winter. It's not a story about him abandoning his friends or being taken from them, it's a tale of renewal – the opportunity to start over every winter with a fresh outlook."

"My rational mind understands it, John. I get all that, but…for me, it's sad. I'll get over it." She wished she could lure him away from the snowman and into a hot shower, where she'd take his mind off of seasonal cartoons if only Ruthie hadn't insisted on a 'no schtupping' rule. His expert knowledge of pressure point massage was nothing short of foreplay, she knew, reveling in his touch. "Watch Frosty, sweetheart. I'll be fine," she insisted.

"It's okay, sweetie. If you cry, I'm here to dry your tears," he replied softly, rubbing her ankles as well. "Just as I always will be."

0O0

After watching television for a time, Sarah had showered and they had gone to bed, both reluctant to leave the next day. They'd pushed thoughts of returning to Manhattan to the back of their minds, wanting to take their time in the morning. John looked forward to leisurely reading the paper, bantering once more with his mom and smiling as she gave suggestions over his shoulder about the crossword puzzle.

But tonight, he thought of something else entirely as his significant other lay by his side. Sarah didn't realize it, but John loved to watch her sleep, to hear her soft snoring as low light from the streetlamp hazily created shadows on the bedroom walls. It was one of his most calming before-sleep rituals.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest in the near-total darkness, the rhythm something that signified all was right with his world. While he couldn't clearly see her expression in the shadows then, he loved the way her lashes brushed her cheeks as the tension left her face in sleep.

She let out a small sigh and turned from her back toward him, instinctively reaching out as he wrapped his arm around her. He brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead, wondering if he could kiss her without causing her to awaken. John gave in to his urge, his lips brushing hers as she woke up just enough to realize he was holding her.

"I love you," she whispered, not entirely awake. She snuggled against him as he pulled her closer.

"I love you, too," he said softly, kissing her once more before he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

…to be continued…


	14. Chapter 14

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" Chapter Fourteen

"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" Chapter Fourteen

by Cardinal Robbins

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John awoke slowly the next morning, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth as he felt Sarah cuddled against his chest, beneath the warmth of their blankets. He drew in a deep breath, the air not quite cold but brisk enough to remind him autumn would give way to winter all too soon. He softly kissed her hair, gently moving past her cheek to her lips. Waiting for her to awaken, he wrapped his arms around her, whispered to her and waited.

Gradually she opened her eyes, returning his kiss as she playfully tugged the covers over their heads. "It's cold out there, but it's warm in here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Let's stay in here forever."

"I'm all for it, but Mom might want her bed back someday," he replied, chuckling. "Good thing she can't see us, she'd think we were violating her no-schtupping rule." He reached down, caressing the curve of her hip as she pressed harder against him. "Just wait until I get you home," he teased.

"You're not the only one with plans in that regard," she quipped. "I'll have you out of your clothes faster than unwrapping a birthday present." She nuzzled his neck, both of them wishing they could manage a liaison without Ruthie's knowledge, yet it was entirely out of the question.

He kissed her deeply before a frustrated sigh escaped him. "Since I can't warm you up the way I'd like, how about I close the window and turn on the heat lamp in the bathroom?"

"If you do, I'll make it a point to reward your chivalry once we're back." She gave him another kiss, stroking the back of his neck until he reluctantly crept out of bed into the morning chill.

John tucked the covers tightly around her before he pulled the window closed and went to make good on his offer. As he closed the bathroom door, he felt like it had been an eternity since they'd had their way with each other, a longing no amount of showering could wash away.

0O0

Not quite an hour later, he was fully dressed, with the early edition of The Baltimore Sun unfolded in front of him. His mother peered over his shoulder as he attacked the crossword puzzle with his wit and a pencil. The ancient eraser too stiff to use, he knew better than to make a mistake. "Twenty down, five letter word for 'citrus taste'…"

"Fruity," Ruth decided immediately, patting John on the shoulder before she removed a speck of lint from his suit jacket.

"Can't be, since that's six letters and has no 'a' as the second letter," he replied. "We have 'action' across, providing us with our only clue." He tapped his pencil repeatedly while across the polished wood table from him Sarah smiled, trying not to laugh. She knew the correct word he needed, but to give it up before John could think of it himself was tantamount to treason.

"Are you sure it's 'citrus'?" his mother asked, momentarily perplexed. They had fallen back into rhythm, both of them trying to solve the crossword together, much like John's father before him. A vast vocabulary was serious business for the Munch family, despite the fact Bernie had been the only one who'd attended college for more than a year.

He suddenly leaned forward with renewed purpose, a tight smile on his face. "I'm sure, Mom." He took a quick sip of tea and set his mug down hard enough to almost make Sarah jump. "Wait! Here we go – it's 'tangy,'" he decided, jotting it into place. "See? It fits. Citrus is tangy."

"My son, the genius. Of course it is…I could have told you that," Ruthie said wryly, kissing John on top of his head. "Now will you let me make you breakfast? Scrambled eggs, matzo brei, anything?" She looked to Sarah, sitting quietly with the sports section as she drank her morning cup of Constant Comment. "Sarah, dear, what would you like for breakfast? Tell me whatever you want and I'll fix it, since Johnny's obviously too taken up with the crossword to eat before he faints from hunger."

John laughed; it always amused him when his mother spoke as if he wasn't listening. "Once again, you exaggerate. Whatever happened to leisurely doing a puzzle?" he asked, bantering with his mother as he had when he worked for Baltimore Homicide.

"You're not only starving yourself, you know," Ruthie chided gently. "Sarah?"

She looked up from the paper, thought for a moment and said, "Matzo brei gets my vote."

"Thank you," Ruth replied, leaving John's side to make breakfast. While she busied herself beating eggs, melting butter and crumbling dampened matzos, they all chose to ignore the elephant in the room: The fact good-byes needed to be said, sooner rather than later. No matter how much Sarah buried herself in the newspaper, John amused himself finishing the crossword puzzle or Ruthie set about making breakfast, all of them couldn't help thinking of the inevitable.

Munch scoured the paper for weird news, reading the more obscure and bizarre tidbits as he found them. Still, breakfast was a somewhat solemn affair with Ruth breaking the silence as they ate.

"Sarah, would you program your number into my cell-phone before you and Johnny go back to New York?" She'd always relied on her eldest son to take care of such tasks, wishing now she knew how to do it herself. She wasn't about to let Sarah leave without a way for them to communicate long-distance.

"Sure, Mom," Zelman replied, "I can do that." She looked up from her plate as John pointedly cleared his throat. "Don't tell me, let me guess."

"Too late," he said, "I've taken care of it already. I knew you'd both like to keep in touch, so I took the liberty of doing a little data entry on the sly." He allowed himself a satisfied smile, before taking up another forkful of eggs.

"He thinks of everything," Ruthie said. "Which is why it's so nice having him around."

"Careful, you're treading on dangerous ground," John chastised lightly. "I know what this always leads to, Mom, and you realize it can't happen." He looked at his mother over the top of his lenses as her lips thinned in mild irritation. "I'm sorry, but you know you were about to say it."

"I'm entitled to say it, Johnny – I'm your mother," she replied tartly. "Yes, we go through this every time, but is it my fault I'd like to have both my sons close to me? I miss seeing you." She punctuated it with an eloquent sigh.

"I miss seeing you, too, Mom." He reached out, placing his left hand over her right. "I'm a quick flight or a few short hours' drive away…or a phone call, even an e-mail. We're never all that far apart," he said softly.

"Yes we are," she asserted, "and you know it. I get to miss you now, too, Sarah." She reached out and took Zelman's hand, holding it tightly in hers. "I had no idea my son would bring home someone I'd become this attached to."

Sarah's dark eyes began to glisten with emotion, making John wonder if he'd suddenly be coping with two crying women. He wasn't good with those situations; thankful his Mom wasn't into dramatic scenes, even more grateful his girlfriend rarely shed tears.

"No one's saying goodbye yet," he reminded them, giving his mother's hand a gentle squeeze. "This is our last stop before we leave and there are a couple of places we still want to go." He looked first to his mother, then to Sarah, both of them with their eyes downcast. "Please promise me we won't start and end today with tears?"

"Ask me that again right before you leave," Ruth replied, all too aware she couldn't look into John's eyes just then and she certainly wasn't about to promise anything. All she could think of was that by sundown her eldest son, arguably her favorite, would no longer be with her in Pikesville.

0O0

The sun glinted off the water as John and Sarah looked out across a large pond, at the center of his favorite park in Baltimore. Trees surrounded them, resplendent in their fiery autumn display; the breeze coaxed leaves from branches, adding them to the colorful collection already underfoot.

John had found a bench overlooking the water, leading Sarah toward it to sit by his side. "I wanted you to see this place," he said. "It's where I used to come when I needed to think."

"It's beautiful," she replied. "When was the last time you were here?" She pulled her coat tighter against her chest, the mid-morning air chilly despite the sun.

"Thanksgiving, last year." He took off his scarf, wrapped it around her neck and playfully pulled her close. "I was here thinking about you…about us." John looked at her intently, wondering once more why it had taken a stroke of fate for them to be together. He felt life owed him having found her much earlier, someone by his side who understood him, appreciated him, loved him without hidden agendas or conditions. "I realized how much I wanted you with me. I missed you, Sarah," he said softly. "I thought about why I hadn't invited you to come home with me then, when I wanted you so much. I regretted not having asked if you'd be with me."

"John, I wasn't ready and neither were you," she reminded him gently. "We went from zero to sixty with our relationship; we needed time to make sure we were doing the right thing for each other." She took his hand in hers and kissed it, his long fingers moving to caress her cheek. "I needed time to decide if I was jumping into another doomed relationship, after Danny and I went down in flames. I hadn't exactly been the luckiest person when it came to love, you know what I mean?"

"I know exactly what you mean, because I was contemplating the very same thing," he admitted. "I realized I was willing to put myself out there for you emotionally, physically, whatever I had to do to get you into my life." He stared out across the water, the reflected sunlight turning his polychromic lenses dark. "When Liv convinced Don to hire you, she was doing it for me more than she was doing it for you. It felt dishonest somehow, as if all I was trying to do was control you, manipulating you into a job you might not have wanted." He turned to look at her, an expression of anguish and uncertainty on his face.

"It wasn't as if I didn't realize what was going on," she assured him. "I recognized the job offer for what it was, John, and you should know by now no one can force me into anything I don't want to do." She and Olivia had talked it over one night when John had gone home early and the bullpen was deserted except for the two of them. Benson didn't press the point she'd done some quick maneuvering for John's sake, but she was honest in accepting Zelman's gratitude for her actions.

"I didn't want anyone else to have you, Sarah – not Stranahan, not the Marshal's Service, no one but me," he replied. "What I did wasn't fair to you and I wish I could apologize for it, but I can't bring myself to do so. I was being selfish then, as much as I'm feeling the same way now." He toyed with the buttons on her coat, looking at them instead of looking at her.

"You don't need to apologize, John," she asserted. "Sometimes, your being selfish is for our mutual benefit." She absently scooted a few leaves away from their bench, smiling as they crunched underfoot. "I didn't want to be anywhere else or with anyone else. It was a good move for both of us." She pulled his hands away from her coat, holding them for a moment. "I knew you'd made a decision and I trusted you to think about what was best. I've never regretted it, nor will I ever."

"But I didn't have the right," he replied. "I should have asked Don myself or let you go to him on your own." If he felt any guilt at all, it was because he hadn't taken the initiative to convince Cragen on his own, without allowing a trusted friend and colleague to speak for him.

"The end justified the means, sweetheart. Besides, if you'd hesitated, he'd have filled the opening on the squad with someone else." She took off his scarf and playfully looped it around his neck, trying to get him to smile.

"There is that, I suppose." His guilt beginning to fade, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.

"What's past is past, John," she replied, returning his embrace. "What's important is that we're together now…nothing else matters."

…_to be continued…_


End file.
